


The Weight of Us

by foibles_fables



Series: When Everything Else is Gone [2]
Category: Legend of the Seeker (TV)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Duty and Feelings™, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Femslash, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Character Tags to be Added - Freeform, Prophecy, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, other relationship tags to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 126,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23803066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables
Summary: The Seeker is gone, having apparently failed in his quest to defeat the Keeper of the Underworld, just as the prophecy foretold. But, the world has not yet broken at its seams. Richard's death and its circumstances invoke further mysteries as new prophecies are revealed; a new path is lit. Kahlan and Cara, exiting their careful solitude, grapple with what comes next in a life without Richard. Sequel toI'll Carry You With Me (Just Please Hold On).
Relationships: Dahlia/Cara Mason, Kahlan Amnell/Cara Mason
Series: When Everything Else is Gone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714396
Comments: 494
Kudos: 451





	1. Dark Come Soon

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is a huge leap of faith. I never thought I’d be writing a sequel to a piece published a decade ago, almost to the day. Please see the series link to [Part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812448/chapters/46910587) before continuing, if you have not already. If you’re reading, I appreciate you. Long live the Seeker.

“You really don’t have to stare.”

The words, cutting into another prolonged period of quiet, brought Cara’s mind back to her body. Kahlan’s own gaze was fixed on her in a way that made her blood run cold with something she couldn’t identify. The Mother Confessor had paused with a spoonful of venison stew halfway to her mouth, returning it to her bowl as she spoke. Cara squinted, furrowing her brow.

“I wasn’t staring,” she responded gruffly, and it was a lie. One more to add to the list of lies she’d been telling lately - some small and quickly forgotten, some vague and said in futile comfort, some so vast and deep that they had threatened and redefined her duty and very self, all at once. Her own supper bowl was empty, so she set it aside, pointedly turning her eyes down to the embers of the small fire before them.

A truth, then, to brandish feebly at this mound of lies she had created. Cara had been staring at Kahlan as they dined that evening. In fact, staring at Kahlan had become a vexing pastime of Cara’s lately, for more reasons than she would let herself fully consider. Staring watchfully (most of the time), guiltily (nearly all of the time), _lustfully_ (more than she would like to admit), just constantly staring. She could no longer pretend Kahlan hadn’t noticed, apparently. She was unreadable by Kahlan’s Confessor magic, but not by the woman she had been with, desperately alone, for months now. Her jaw hardened.

This was a case of the first sort of staring. Watching Kahlan eat was cause for intense relief, and Cara hadn’t been able to stop; if anything had ever reassured her, that was it. Kahlan was turning a corner. Kahlan wasn’t going to wither away, as she had begun to fear. _As long as the Mother Confessor’s pure heart beats, the Keeper is doomed to fail_. She could hear the prophecy as plainly as the crackling fire before her. 

It had all been dangerously close to ruin.

It had been nearly a month since the night when most shameful of Cara’s lies ( _Richard is dead_ , a quick recoil, that burning shame) was dragged into the open - since both of them were nearly lost, one of them to an indescribable, all-consuming sorrow, the other to the ancient rage this sorrow brought on its heels. A thought intruded Cara’s defenses: the second, maybe, would not have been such a loss. After all, she had made promises that night that she was now unsure that she would be able to keep.

(Concealed envy of a dead man, much less a dead _master_ , provided no fertile ground for epiphanies of _softness_ and _delicacy_ , apparently.)

In any case, every one of Kahlan’s bites of every meal they shared was like deliverance. Only perhaps a week ago had she been able to stomach food, and she had certainly grown thinner; the angles of her face had changed enough for Cara to notice. Dark circles had appeared under those capturing eyes in which Cara had to strain to not lose herself. 

For the first days after the Con Dar overcame her, Kahlan was understandably weak, almost completely absent from her body. She woke only long enough to remember, shudder wordlessly, and look at Cara (who, at this point, had taken on that staring habit) with different degrees of heartbreak, betrayal, and need for something Cara couldn’t comprehend and therefore had absolutely no hope of giving. When Kahlan would nod off again, Cara took to passing time by wailing on a nearby tree with her deadened Agiels until her body ached more than her heart.

More days had passed during which Kahlan was awake, but still mostly cold and silent; so was Cara, purely in an absence of any single thing to say. These had been the longest days. Cara managed to stubbornly persuade Kahlan to drink some of the weak quench oak tea she had brewed, but that was the extent of her success.

A fortnight, and while both Kahlan’s eyes and demeanor had softened towards Cara, she still spoke only when spoken to. Cara found herself blabbering asininely about their surroundings, narrating the wilderness around their wayward pine until she thought herself completely ridiculous. It was worth it to hear Kahlan’s voice now and again, though never at length. Cara had offered Kahlan foraged root vegetables, which she had boiled and mashed. She was no cook. Kahlan usually ate a few bites.

The last few days had been the most encouraging, but difficult in their own way. Kahlan began to greet Cara in the morning and helped her carry water from the stream and gather herbs and vegetables. They shared short but inconsequential conversations while Cara split logs for firewood. Every so often, she might have smiled a tiny, sad smile, hints of expression that Cara might have missed had she not recently been so transfixed by the Confessor’s disposition. 

These smiles, ridiculous in their circumstance, were beautiful enough to wreck Cara at the knees. 

And then Kahlan had woken one morning with a still-bleary murmur about being hungry. Without missing a single beat, Cara all but bolted away from their shelter, tracking and running down a healthy stag in record time, so frenzied that she nearly subdued it with her bare hands. Luckily, she had remembered to grab her bow and quiver in her hasty act of servility - it helped. The misfortunate beast was obviously heavy but felt so light as she slung its body over her shoulders and carried it back to be skinned. Kahlan would be fed. Kahlan would be happy. Suddenly all of her momentum halted as she stopped in her tracks, just stopping herself from tumbling forward and being crushed by the good few days of sustenance spread across her back.

 _Kahlan would be happy_. 

There was a surge of that stupid elation, disguised as innocuous hope, but Cara was painfully aware of the truth beneath. Here she was, running off like a trained dog at the snap of its master’s fingers. (And she would do it again, she knew. Any number of times.) She huffed, shifted the stag’s weight roughly, and carried onward.

This had brought them to this particular evening - Kahlan had even found the effort to cook this stew, apparently done dealing with the gruel and simple roasted skewers Cara had been preparing. The Confessor gathered another mouthful onto her spoon and continued with her dinner, taking two more bites before speaking again.

“I’m not really sure if I believe you, but if you say you weren’t staring, I’ll have to take you at your word.” Her dinner was finished, then, having scraped the bowl clean; she set it beside her and placed her hands softly on her knees, leaning towards Cara and staring right back. 

Cara stood, crossing her arms, responding in a way she hoped sounded like herself, despite the infernal hammering in her chest brought on by Kahlan’s sharp look. 

Quick, clipped words, a deadpan remark. Just like before - but this wasn’t before. 

“You should believe me. I wasn’t staring. You’re not _that_ captivating.”

Another lie. 

Cara’s lip flinched and she hoped this wouldn’t be the one to topple the mound. 

* * *

For all of the close observation, though, it was singularly maddening to Cara that she had no idea how Kahlan was wrestling with Richard’s ghost.

It was largely her own fault, as most of this seemed to be. Kahlan had not chosen to reveal anything she was feeling - a stark contrast to Cara’s distinct and haunting memory of her openly weeping over the Sword of Truth, even when Richard’s absence was quite impermanent. And Cara, for her part, was utterly lost on how to attempt to draw anything out of the Confessor. Any attempts had left her tongue-tied and defeated even before she could say anything. She had already done irreparable damage. More words would only cause more harm. Words exchanged between them in that same memory, a day so long ago now, was a near-constant echo.

_“It’s not necessary to feel pain over his absence.”_

_“Don’t you feel anything?”_

Kahlan’s softly incredulous question was particularly biting now. She was right. What could Cara clutch within herself to offer out? 

Cara saw all of her own losses reflected back at her in Kahlan’s despair. A childhood, a family, a whole budding life lost to piece together the Mord-Sith she was. “ _Anger, loyalty, pride...these feelings make you powerful_.” This was what she became, transformed from the suffering. Dangerous steel pulled from a hostile forge. Never mournful, never remorseful like Kahlan. Apparently that part of her had been fractured somewhere along the way.

Cara soon stopped trying to be all of those things she was not at all.

Neither spoke of Richard, or of Zedd, or of what had transpired between the two of them that night weeks before. The cycle of silence begetting silence hung over them like a thick and stifling shroud. The schism between them was palpable and it made Cara restless; she would have begged for the touch of a thousand Agiels over this suffocating omission. But pulling these things out of Kahlan, or out of herself, felt about as simple as dragging a body from the Valley of Perdition.

So she bid the discomfort back, like she had always practiced, and forced herself to carry on as she normally would. She relied on what she could see. Kahlan’s appetite had returned. Her cheeks began to fill out, her hair was regaining its luster, her movements looked less effortful. She was gradually looking more like the woman for whom Cara so irritatingly yearned. 

But the deep, nearly-purple, circles under Kahlan’s tired eyes only darkened each day after every restless night. 

The nights were how Cara knew with certainty how very haunted Kahlan still was.

She was a close witness to Kahlan’s horrible sleep, almost every night of it wracked with fits of shouting, thrashing, and tears. As far as Cara could tell, Kahlan was not awake or aware through any of it. At times she would jolt upright on her bedroll, gasping, eyes wide open but vacant, unseeing, before settling back down and falling back into agitated slumber. The first episode had frightened the wits out of Cara, taking it for a resurgence of the Con Dar. She took seconds to prepare to fight for her life once again before Kahlan simply slumped back over, still somehow tense in the motion of it.

Mord-Sith training had certainly involved rest deprivation, but never with a panicked, drowsy Confessor mere inches away. Not to mention the added mental torment of watching Kahlan in such obvious pain. 

The fits had become somewhat more predictable as time passed, enough for Cara to mitigate (albeit clumsily). A firm hand on Confessor’s back, passing along her shoulders, sometimes a gentle squeeze of her upper arm, accompanied by a breathy _hush_ or whisper of her name into her ear, was enough to settle Kahlan when she started to groan and stir. Simple - but not easy. It took most of Cara’s hard-earned discipline not to envelop Kahlan’s body with her own, pulling her in tight, sparing her of whatever suffering she was enduring by absorbing it into herself, a much more favorable replacement for her Agiels. 

This was the only way Cara could think to protect her from all this. And it was impossible. Laughable to even consider. Her guts roiled with a despicable sort of selfish guilt at the thought of embracing Kahlan like that, though every fragment of her body begged for it. She hadn’t held Kahlan since that awful night the month before. Just once had she allowed her hand to linger, to sweep slowly from Kahlan’s shoulder over her ribs toward the curve of her hip - chaste, for her, but too dangerously close - before she came to her senses and withdrew like she had been grasping hot coals.

Her master’s ghost - Richard’s ghost - was there, watching this dereliction of duty, this betrayal, all these things she’s done. With his final words to her, he had given her the chance to live up to his expectations, and she had failed at every turn.

Greedily serving her own needs would only cause everyone pain. Better for the pain to be hers alone. It was a worthy penance for every promise she had broken.

* * *

The slippery feeling of soaked deer tendon in her ungloved fingers was enough to hold back the cloudy thoughts as Cara made quick work of re-fletching arrows. With a final nimble tie, she set the finished bolt aside and reached for another, placing a fresh sinew thread between her teeth. She allowed her eyes to dart to Kahlan, who had been watching. Her attention had lapsed; she was now peering blankly past the Mord-Sith’s shoulder. Cara frowned thoughtfully as she buried herself back into her task, snatching a suitable arrow from the pile beside her, its quill also promptly tucked into the corner of her mouth. She cut a nock in the back of the shaft with a quick and deft strike of her knife.

When, just like that, the discordant silence between them broke with a hushed question. 

“What do you think happened?”

Cara’s eyes snapped back up to squint at Kahlan as she lightly spit out the sinew and feather. 

“Happened with _what_?” 

Immediate regret pummeled her. Idiotic. Richard was dead. What else was there to possibly question? She saw Kahlan’s reaction flicker from surprise (at the response, at the unintentional sharpness in her voice, at her perceived utter incapability to connect, probably), to thinly-veiled woe, back to uncertain contemplation. The change was almost imperceptible, but gave away enough mixed emotions to make Cara balk. There was a whirlwind in her head, a hammering in her chest. This was already not going well. She felt far outside of her own body, powerlessly watching herself do these things she hated.

“To _Richard_ , Cara,” Kahlan sighed, voice barely above a whisper, “and to Zedd.” She gathered the coarse blanket around her shoulders in her arms, rounding her shoulders, suddenly looking very small. Her blue eyes, still so brilliantly radiant in the evening twilight, were on Cara as she spoke - but Cara could see that her mind was somewhere else entirely. “I...I can’t stop wondering what happened in the end. I have constant nightmares about it.” A pause as she bit her lip, composing herself. “I can’t stand thinking about how I wasn’t even there. How _we_ weren’t there. And how we should have been.”

And Kahlan was not wrong. The very same thought had buzzed in Cara’s head without relent since the day she felt the Rahl bond dissipate. It was bitter, sickly. What defined a Mord-Sith without the charge of protecting and serving the Lord Rahl? Nothing. Except.

“I know this is...painful for you,” Cara replied, careful to keep her voice even, measuring every word. Why was this so difficult? “But this is what Richard wanted. You, protected, and me, making sure of it. This was his last command to me. His last great act of care for you, and for the world of the living.” She hadn't realized she was clutching the unfletched arrow in her hands so tightly that it could have snapped like a twig.

Kahlan sighed, raking her fingers through her long, dark tresses. “It would be simple to think of it like that. And maybe it’s the better way to think of it.” Her eyes began to glisten. “But Cara, I miss him.” It came out as a choked whisper. “I’ve missed him since the moment he left. I never really believed his leave would be permanent. I mean, this is Richard we’re talking about.”

“I miss him too.” Cara heard her own somber voice before she realized she was speaking. And it was the truth, a huge truth, and somehow she didn’t want to keel over as the words hung in the space between them.

 _“These feelings make you weak_.” 

_“I’m not sure love makes a person weak, Cara_ . _”_

And she wasn’t sure what returned Kahlan’s words or her incongruously tearful smile from the ether of the past - but she _did_ feel weak, but it wasn’t a weakness of turning inward, but of reaching out. _Look. See me. I am a mess. I am here with you. Let me share in the carrying of this._ Out of control, overexposed, bare and raw, all for Kahlan. Cara swallowed and set her jaw against the spiral swelling in her belly, against the brutal struggle of whatever was being excised from her body.

And Kahlan heard her - she did not turn away, or frown, or scoff. She simply locked eyes with her, gazing into them with an intensity that made Cara’s fingers tingle. The same eyes that went black and blind with the Con Dar’s rage, that wept for Richard until they were numb. Kahlan’s eyes. She was beautiful. 

In that flash of connection, neither of them was alone.

Maybe Kahlan didn’t hate her. Maybe she could do this. _Reach out_.

What would Richard say?

“He would be glad, and proud, to see you surviving.”

Was this enough? Was she enough? _Spirits_ , did Kahlan see how she was trying? Her heart throbbed in a way that was impossible to push away. Could Kahlan see straight through all these awkward words and chaotic thoughts to how badly Cara wanted her? 

(Upon a hazy second consideration, Cara was not sure she wanted that particular question to be answered.)

They held each other there, their bodies paces apart, for a few moments - seconds, minutes, hours, Cara wouldn’t have been able to tell with a blade pressed to her throat. She was tethered to everything around her only by Kahlan’s eyes and her cryptic facial expression; lamentation, guilt, gentleness, pining, compassion, all in one piercing look, and Cara marveled at how that was even _possible_.

Before Cara could be further wondered, as Kahlan’s face softened. For just a fleeting second, Cara might have seen one of those tiny smiles cross her lips, but if one had, it was gone as quickly as it came. She wondered if she would see Kahlan’s true smile again, the potent memory of it crashing into her like a warhammer.

Kahlan busied her hands, smoothing the sleeve of her traveler’s dress and then tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. Cara caught herself unwittingly mirroring the motion. The air was cool, but her hair had been nearly plastered to the side of her forehead. She couldn’t blame the concentration she spent on the arrows. Kahlan gave a shrug of her shoulders.

“I also have to wonder what’s next.”

Cara stood straight from her cross-legged position on the ground at Kahlan’s quiet statement. This was another unexpected escalation. There was a _next_ , Kahlan thought. Something beyond the tragedy that had happened. A sudden, nagging hope throttled through her.

“What do you mean?” she asked carefully, pursing her lips. She couldn’t stand answering everything as a question, seeming so dull, but she knew she needed to navigate this cautiously, like stepping into a field of dragon’s breath mines.

“Think about it, Cara.” Kahlan was also seemingly choosing her words carefully. “We haven’t encountered a single baneling in over a month.” She was right. None of the Keeper’s wretched servants had threatened them since that brutal fight during which Cara had allowed herself to be injured. But that was after her Agiels had stopped working. The timeline was convoluted, enough that it made her rub a single temple.

“I have thought about it, actually. And I think what you say is true. Though it’s been safe, it doesn’t seem to make much sense.”

“Exactly. If Richard is…” Her words trailed off and she gave an uncertain sigh, as if hesitating to say the next words out loud for the first time. “If Richard failed to find the Stone of Tears, or to seal the rift in the veil, wouldn’t you expect this world to be falling apart at the seams, even as we speak? There should be death and destruction running rampant everywhere, even here. Why isn’t it?”

Cara’s blood ran cold with the memory of the Underworld, of the endless sea of bodies writhing in indistinguishable yet all-consuming agony. This had been the threat. Kahlan was right, again - why hadn’t it come to pass? Cara wondered how much of Kahlan’s time in her own head had been spent ruminating through this.

“You think there’s something we’ve missed,” Cara concluded for the Mother Confessor. 

Kahlan nodded, keeping her head down at the motion’s end, the color draining from around her cheekbones. “I do.” Her voice had taken on a slight shake. “I think there’s something we have yet to do, or something we simply do not know.” She lifted her chin to look fully at Cara, shapely dark eyebrows knitted together, betraying the heavy burden she bore as she spoke. “The idea of moving on to something more without Richard hurts more than I can describe to you. It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Cara flexed a fist. She knew pain and its many kinds. Maybe Kahlan could do just that.

“But what kind of Confessor would I be if I allowed my Seeker’s journey to fall incomplete?” Kahlan was standing, then, closing the distance between them and grasping Cara’s straining wrist, holding her gaze helplessly captive again. “What kind of woman would I be if I let the death of the man I love be for nothing?”

Cara felt the world around her swim again, felt her pulse pounding all the way into her skull. Kahlan was so close to her; her grip on her arm felt like a hot coal. Kahlan’s unexpectedly resolute words reverberated through her bones.

What kind of Mord-Sith would she be if she let the Lord Rahl’s journey end in question?

Who would _she_ be, if she did not follow Kahlan?

 _As long as the Mother Confessor’s pure heart beats, the Keeper is doomed to fail_. Her duty, her direction, her heart being wrenched from its cage.

The only path was absolutely clear.

“We’ve been here too long,” she murmured with a tiny bow of agreement.

Kahlan’s mourning, silence, and tears were nearly impossible for Cara to handle. But this - a way forward, action instead of inaction, the presage of perhaps some unknown danger - this, she could take onto her shoulders. She could prove herself. _A lifetime of them._

Something almost bright ignited in Kahlan’s eyes and she squeezed Cara’s wrist, more strongly than Cara would have expected, before releasing it. The fingers of her other hand ghosted past the spot where Kahlan’s just were.

“How should we even begin?” Kahlan asked breathlessly, pressing a hand to her own chest, over what Cara imagined was an exhilarated heartbeat.

“We need information. We need to scout,” she proposed, relishing the occasion to be thinking clearly, tactically. “We need to see the state of what’s around us. We should set out for that town. It’s a tiny place, by most standards, and would probably be less dangerous than we could take if the situation is grim.” 

Kahlan shook her head in the affirmative, eyes narrowing and biting her lip in solemn determination, and this was so close to the Kahlan whom Cara had long known. It almost overwhelmed her.

“We can be ready to leave at first light.”

* * *

The morning sun fought sheepishly through the canopy of leaves far above their heads.

Kahlan poured more water onto the fire. Plumes of smoke billowed up from the embers; they hissed a protesting death wail, incredibly loud in contrast to their size. Cara, watching her silently, finished balancing the weight of their packs, which were by then brimming with all of the belongings that had made this their isolated sanctuary.

Satisfied with the fire’s wheezing carcass, Kahlan joined her, wordlessly shrugging her bag onto her back and setting off, without preamble, in the direction of the nearby town. Cara stood from her crouch and shouldered her own, not wanting to already be trailing behind.

But for a moment, she was compelled by something swirling in her gut to take pause and look discreetly over her shoulder at the drooping boughs of their secluded wayward pine, where she and Kahlan had been alone together. The swirling turned to hollowness that flowed through her bones. Swallowing it away, she turned to catch up with Kahlan.

And when she did, she could have sworn she saw Kahlan taking a look back as well.


	2. what are you so afraid of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this got out of hand lengthwise, and there was no good splitting point. Bear with me, I'm not usually so verbose.

Another fat bead of sweat rolled from under the sentry’s leather helm into his wide, young, frightened eyes. He blinked rapidly, desperately avoiding the urge to rub his face into his shoulder, lest he allow his crossbow’s already not-so-steady aim to falter. Again, he called out to the unknown figures below him, voice cracking with his coming-of-age.

“Thorncairn’s walls are open to traders only.”

“I’ve got something to trade with him,” Cara murmured under her breath, fingers twitching with the barely-resisted urge to nock an arrow of her own. She kept a cool glare fixed on the nervous guardsman as sure as his weapon was trained on her. The eye contact made him gulp, and the crossbow, too big for his skinny arms, jostled dangerously before he regained control. This was quite apparently  _ not _ the same sentry Cara had passed by time and time before, with only the fee of a bit of skin revealed by Kahlan’s traveling dress. She had not crossed this town’s bounds since that day when she had received confirmation of Richard’s demise; standing here now, the memory chewed at her. Those apples had been delicious.

Kahlan quieted Cara with a faint touch on her wrist. “I don’t think we’d gain any favor with the townspeople by putting an arrow through their watchman. Besides, Cara, he’s nearly a child.” Cara rolled her eyes - she wouldn’t really have done it. But it  _ would _ have effectively ended this increasingly exasperating stand-off. Kahlan, after shaking her head at the Mord-Sith’s typical stubbornness, turned her attention to the young man standing over them on the rampart. “We bring no harm or threat to your town.” She kept her voice firm but gentle, projecting it with authority. “We are not banelings and bear no mark of the Keeper - we are also refugees of this cataclysm. Surely you could alert your commander so we can discuss our entry?”

It was clear that the novice guard had never before experienced a negotiation like this, as opposed to being able to rely on his orders and scripted warnings. He gaped at Kahlan, mouth opening and closing futilely as he grappled for something to say. Apparently, he caught onto nothing, as he just repeated, “Thorncairn’s walls are-”

“Traders only,” Cara growled, finishing for him, earning herself another tap from Kahlan, more forceful this time. 

“You’re going to get that bolt sent right into you,” she cautioned gravely, dark eyebrows raising in admonishment. Cara scoffed.

“With aim like that, I highly doubt it.”

Kahlan ignored that particular aside. She raised her hand to her face, absently tracing the faint scar on her upper lip with her thumb, brow furrowing as she considered further options. Despite the growing irritation clawing at her nerves, Cara’s eyes were hopelessly drawn to the small motion; her thoughts, too, were pulled there, to the delicate mark’s origin, to Kahlan’s lips, the shape of them, their taste, and her body went hot and cold all at once, lust mingling with and terminating, then, with explosion of fury at herself for another lapse in discipline.

“I wish I could give him my name,” Kahlan pondered aloud, crossing her arms over her chest, yanking Cara’s attention from her mind’s perilous path. “I’m not sure anything else we might say could convince him to give us permission to enter, or at least fetch someone else who would.”

“ _ No _ .” Cara’s interjection came quickly, strained, with a quick shake of her head to void it more completely of Kahlan’s mouth. “No. I thought we were in agreement that it’s too soon. The situation is too unclear. There could be a bounty on your head, or worse.”

Kahlan frowned, nodding towards the sentry. “You’re right. But we need to earn our way in soon, before the poor thing up there breaks down completely.” The guard was peering at them through narrowed eyes, struggling to hear their hushed conversation, probably praying to the Creator (if she was still around) that these two women would just depart without further argument. 

As Cara regarded his trembling form, her escalating temper finally erupted. They had  _ not _ walked all day only to be turned away at the gates of this town, a town so insignificant she hadn’t even known its name until now. The sun was already past its high point. The first step in this new journey could ( _ would _ ) absolutely not be impeded by this tenderfoot guard. Kahlan had seemed hopeful, so determined, and as truth would have it, Cara had let herself feel the same.

But now, just the anger. This deeply-ingrained anger with the unidentifiable source, the anger that felt new to her but had probably been there since the beginning. Cara clenched her fists, feeling the tendons in her forearms straining under her skin, suddenly desperate for the numbing wail and excruciation of a live Agiel in her hands, something to siphon out the venomous anger, something to turn the discomfort from immaterial to real.

It felt like an eternity since she had known their touch. Now, there was only this nebulous, clumsy undisciplined hostility **.**

The thought rippling under and feeding the acid enmity, now, as she scowled at her obstacle?

If Richard were here, they would be granted access to Thorncairn instantaneously, without question or any degree of hesitation. 

She bared her teeth. What was the answer here? She wasn’t the Seeker. What could she do, besides spontaneously transform into the Seeker himself? To do so would solve a number of her problems, more than she could count. Her face was burning and she felt herself begin to shake with all of the pent-up aggression.

From what seemed like far away, Kahlan must have noticed this tension; she reached out and grasped Cara’s forearm in a silent plea (or subtle command, perhaps) to  _ calm down _ .

In that moment of contact, Cara’s mind cleared like the gap of silence between a lightning flash and its resultant thunder. She had the answer. One desperate, stupidly hopeful attempt at moving forward.

“Robert!” Her eyes locked onto the boy’s. He took a staggering step of retreat at the unexpected exclamation. “Your shopkeeper. Summon him, and he will vouch for us. I’ve been through here before.”

“Robert…” The watchman allowed his weapon to droop for just a second. “Robert is my granduncle.”

“Great.” Cara sneered, enunciating each word sharply. “So it should be no issue to bring him here.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Kahlan added for her, receiving a sigh for her kindness. She was still holding on to Cara’s arm. 

The boy stared alternately between them and the ground behind him inside the town for  _ almost  _ too long. Finally, with meekness saturating his voice, he hollered over his shoulder.

“Will someone please call for my granduncle? There are...travelers at the gate who say that he will speak for them.”

Kahlan gave Cara’s wrist a quick squeeze. “Good thinking,” she said. “I hope this works.” Her hand floated away as she released her grip; Cara winced at the loss of contact, at how it had stifled the anger and now was gone. It had been a brief respite from the reckless spike of poison in her veins.

The stalemate carried on as someone beyond the wall scurried to the task. “So we’re just northwest of Kelton,” Kahlan thought aloud, and Cara was impressed that she had recognized the town, before it set in that she had been raised with intimate knowledge of Midlands statecraft. “We must have been sheltering near a western tributary of the Kern. Aydindril is nearly straight north of us. I wonder how the city has fared since we were there.”

Cara struggled to reply to Kahlan’s progressively apprehensive narrative, but was spared by the emergence of a discongruent figure on the battlement next to the young sentry. The newcomer was quite portly compared to the spindly youth, and he was huffing and puffing with the exertion of climbing the rampart stairs. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped sweat from around his bushy white eyebrows as he exchanged indiscernible words with his grandnephew. The boy gestured towards Kahlan and Cara, whispering something - Robert pulled out a pair of spectacles (this time, from a breast pocket) and held them to his face, squinting at them so intensely it would have been comical under any other circumstance.

His searching eyes met Cara’s. After a bit of nearsighted scrutiny, he nodded with such excited force that, although he was covered to the waist by the wooden wall, it was apparent that both of his feet had left the ground. A grin widened beneath his unruly mustache as he shouted to her.

“Blondie!” Cara immediately cringed. “It  _ is _ you! I hardly recognized you in those leathers - they’re terrifying.”

“Robert,” Cara replied, pressing her lips together in a thin impression of a smile that hopefully did not look too peeved at the nickname. 

“You recognize these women?” The boy’s eyes were flitting nervously between them and the shopkeeper, afraid to settle for too long on either.

“Vincent, you know I never forget a customer,” Robert chided, giving him a quick pop in the shoulder, nearly knocking the crossbow loose, “and certainly not a customer who came to see me during those recent fearful times. I hope you enjoyed the apples!” He added the last bit for Cara, and Cara felt Kahlan watching her.

Vincent, meanwhile, was still trying to straighten his thoughts. “So...so you vouch for them, then, if allowed entry?”

“I do! If harm should come from their acceptance into Thorncairn’s walls, I will bear full responsibility.” He placed a solemn, thick fist over his heart. “Now, what are you waiting for? Let the weary travelers in!”

Vincent looked entirely and hopelessly lost, but spoke the words regardless.

“Open the gates!"

The phrase was echoed once, twice more by different voices beyond the walls. The wooden gate groaned as it began to cave inward, rendering the way forward for Cara and Kahlan. Kahlan took a deep breath of relief as she turned to Cara.

“Onward we go. Thank you, blondie.” The compliment was punctuated with an inscrutable look and a teasing twitch of her brow.

Cara expected to feel much more indignant than she actually felt.

* * *

What she was seeing simply did not make sense.

Robert had met them inside of the gates, red-faced and out of breath from the blending of his rapid descent from the bulwark and his enthusiasm to greet them. Ever the social and gregarious shopman, eager to make a new human connection, he had shaken their hands vigorously and insisted upon introductions. Cara begrudgingly grumbled her name, as the slight loss of anonymity was preferable to carrying “blondie” as a permanent tag. Kahlan offered a false name to avoid incidental recognition.

At their request, Robert was leading them directly to the town council’s chambers. Vincent, chagrined, trailed behind them. As Cara took in the sights and sounds of the high street, she found it hard to conceal her bewilderment. Her last venture through Thorncairn had been marked by eerie quiet, shuttered windows, and a nervous void of motion altogether

Now, they were in the middle of something that was all but accosting her senses after months of isolation. The main square was bustling with folks going about their daily tasks in the brisk afternoon light. Cart merchants called to the throngs of people, pitching and peddling their wares, while a gaggle of laughing children weaved throughout the crowds chasing after a leather ball. In adjacent alleyways, women in aprons smiled and chatted amongs themselves as they worked on their lines, setting freshly laundered clothes and linens to the sun and breeze. A street performer across the way earned delighted applause (and perhaps a coin or two, here and there) for his feats of flexibility and acrobatics.

It was all at once baffling and overwhelming. Cara glanced at Kahlan to see if she was reacting in the same manner. But she was just staring ahead as they walked through the flow of happenings around them.

Robert, though, either sensed the consternation or had lucky timing, because he looked over his shoulder at Cara, still beaming jovially. “Looks a bit different from the last time you were here, no?” His smile widened, if that was physically possible. “It’s a beautiful sight. Our little town the way it was before, the way it should be. Life shouldn’t be lived in hiding, you know! I’ve heard rumors of goings-on outside of here, stories from traders from different corners of the Midlands, but I am merely a humble shopkeep - you’ll get better answers for your questions where we’re heading.”

He addressed Kahlan, then. “Allies of the Seeker, then?” he commented, echoing the somber and vague explanation she had given during their introductions, to stress their insistence on an audience with those in authority. He muted his excitement appropriately as he matched his tone to hers. “It was a sad day, indeed, when I caught wind of his demise. I didn’t want to believe it, but that particular source had never before spoken any falsehoods. The news was woeful but trusted. I’m sure you understand the feeling. It’s much clearer to me now, hearing more of you, why blondie- er, why  _ Cara _ here bolted like a spooked alley cat after we spoke of it weeks ago.”

Cara forced back a grimace at both the memory and apprehension of Kahlan’s reaction to Robert’s account of it. But her expression remained unchanged, still and smooth as marble, the face of the Mother Confessor, carefully trained and refined to betray no emotion lurking beneath. 

All at once, she was not Kahlan, and that fact rattled at Cara’s bones.

She did not have time to dwell on it, however, because Robert had brought them to the foot of a modest stone staircase. It led up to the archway door of a building that was only slightly larger and less nondescript than the others around it. “The council chambers of Thorncairn,” he announced, giving a broad sweep of his arm to point out a carving in one of the stone wall tiles, a thorned vine wound around a small mound of rocks. A bit too on the mark, Cara thought, but who was she to judge a village sigil? “Wait here if you please. I’ll go call on my sister to receive you.”

“Your sister?” Kahlan asked. 

“Our Head Councilwoman.” Robert winked a twinkling green eye before ambling through the entryway. 

“What are you thinking?” Cara asked Kahlan, low of voice, cognizant of Vincent’s wary gaze fixed on them yet. 

“I honestly and not sure what to think,” Kahlan replied after a pause and sigh. She gripped the shoulder straps of her pack, shifting its weight as she looked anywhere but at Cara. “While I don’t feel as though there is danger here...Cara, it’s odd. Everything about this is odd. I was expecting a dismal situation. While I’m glad I was incorrect, for these people’s sake, I don’t know.”

“We need to demand answers.” Cara instinctively went to touch her Agiels, but her fingers merely brushed the hilt of the knife tucked into her belt. The deadened weapons were stowed away in her pack.

“Don’t get too intense. We can only ask what they know.”

“Yes, and some motivation might help, if it comes to it.”

“Let’s do our very best to avoid that, though?” Kahlan’s tone was mild, but her subtle glare made it clear that the suggestion was not a suggestion. Cara crossed her arms, leathers creaking, and gave a petulant  _ huff _ from her nostrils.

A set of footsteps echoed from inside the council building as they approached the vestibule. Robert reappeared in the entryway, trailed by another: a tall, willowy woman with close-cropped silver hair, wearing a simple woolen cloth dress. In stature, she couldn’t have been more different from Robert, but her kindly eyes and exuberant smile, even before seeing them, made it clear that they shared blood.

“I present the Head Councilwoman of Thorncairn.” Richard gave a flourish of his arms, ending in a deep bow. The woman came back at him with a good-natured roll of her eyes.

“Please, Robert, spare us the theatrics.” He chuckled and touched the back of his neck sheepishly as she turned her attention to the foot of the staircase, where Kahlan and Cara stood. “Travelers, welcome to Thorncairn. Robert speaks for you, and claims that you are companions of the Seeker - so you are assuredly a friend to us. We are at your service. My name is Leona.” She concluded with a graceful smile, and then looked behind them, quirking an eyebrow at the gangly teenager who stood in their shadows. “Hello to you too, Vincent.”

“Grandmother,” he replied bashfully, having removed his helm to reveal sweat-soaked ginger ringlets. 

“I hear that my grandson gave you a somewhat difficult time at the gate.” Leona clasped her hands at her waist. “Please accept my apologies. He’s a bit of a stickler for his tasks.”

Kahlan returned the diplomatic smile and turned to look at Vincent. “It was no trouble. He was following the orders of his commander to the letter. It takes bravery and tenacity to persevere as he did.” She nodded. “Your grandson will grow into a talented soldier, I’m sure.” Upon hearing those words from a pretty woman the likes of Kahlan, Vincent’s face grew a shade of red that completely engulfed the freckles on his cheeks. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he all but squeaked. “I am at your service for any necessary reason.”

Cara hoped her derisive snort wasn’t totally audible.

“Please, come inside. We will sit and speak, and I will give you any and all answers I can.” Leona floated to the foot of the steps to patiently usher Cara and Kahlan across the threshold.

Cara stole a final glance at the otherwise-unexceptional commotion in the square and felt something icy flood her veins.

It simply did not make sense.

* * *

“We appreciate the invitation to sit,” Kahlan sighed, folding her hands across her lap as she sank into one of the armed chairs pulled up to Leona’s desk. Cara grunted softly and plopped down into the other. She could have stood for longer.

Leona placed a goblet of water in front of each of them, along with a tray piled with hunks of bread and cheese between them. Kahlan took one of each, pure politesse, but did not take a bite. Cara swiped a sample as well, wasting no time in shoving the offering into her mouth. Kahlan eyed her; she shrugged and swallowed the morsel.

“I’m sure a bit of rest is needed in the midst of your journey.” Leona all but drifted into her own chair - it was high-backed, ornately-carved, and velvet-padded, and it stood out sharply in contrast to the sparse decoration in the rest of the office. “Now please, tell me how you have come upon our town. Some context will hopefully help with the answers you require.”

Kahlan composed herself - Cara watched the speedy but subtle change in her face before she began speaking, lying out the foundation of Richard’s quest and the Stone of Tears for Leona. Her voice was quiet but deliberate, measured. Each word was both carefully-chosen and enthralling (at least, to Cara, as she stared). 

Leona nodded ardently at the recap. “This much we knew. Our situation with the Keeper’s banelings was dire. We kept as apprised as possible about the situation.”

“The last time we were with Richard was almost three months ago, outside of Valdia. We retrieved a scroll containing instructions for the use of the Stone of Tears, once found. But a sect of sorcerous women sworn to the Keeper made off with it,” Confessor Kahlan continued. “Before tracking them, our group made the difficult decision to split up, for a number of reasons. Richard went after them, and Cara and I have been in seclusion ever since.” She took a longer pause before the conclusion, and Cara could see that she was putting all of the effort she had left into maintaining her steadiness. Leona couldn't have noticed, but to the Mord-Sith, it looked excruciating. “We realized something had gone terribly wrong three fortnights ago, when…”

“When the Rahl magic ceased working,” Cara jumped in reflexively, hyperaware of Kahlan’s loss of concentration at her own words, of her unwittingly biting down on her lip to keep them in. She had felt it before she had seen it.

A heavy silence settled between the three women. Leona, who had been listening intently to Kahlan’s words, sighed and took a small bite from a piece of bread. “The Seeker  _ and  _ D’Haran royalty. What a man he must have been.”

Her sentiment lingered in the air as neither Cara nor Kahlan could scrape up a response. The lack thereof must have conveyed plenty, because Leona went on.

“While most of our recent experiences are consistent, there is some perspective I can offer,” she said, drumming her thin fingers on the tabletop, “though I’m not sure how helpful it might be, unfortunately. We are just a small village, with an absence of the magic and intrigue to which I’m sure you are accustomed.”

“Any information at all would be helpful,” said Kahlan. 

“As I said, the situation here was dire when the waves of baneling attacks began. We lost and burned a fair number of bodies here in Thorncairn - many of our fighting men, including my son, Vincent’s father.” Kahlan nodded solemnly in sympathy, which Leona acknowledged with a sad smile. “Our younger men and boys have had to grow up too quickly.”

“A heartbreaking situation to contend with.”

Leona bowed her head in agreement. “We feared that one more incursion would be the end of us. Some citizens fled altogether, and I fear for what became of them.The rest boarded up their homes and simply hid inside. We were unprepared for the worst but, all the same, expecting it.”

“How did you get from that point to here?” Cara asked, trying to dull the razor edge she felt emerging in her voice. She feared that this now-too-long conversation was leading nowhere.

“We waited and waited, terrified through all of it, but the banelings simply stopped coming, thank the spirits,” she said succinctly, punctuating her explanation with a helpless shrug. “Over a time, my people started coming out of hiding, little by little. They have slowly and cautiously returned to a normal flow of life, as you saw today. Our resources have seen an upsurge as visiting traders have come through more frequently, bringing whispers of similar occurrences elsewhere. But, all the same, those claims are unsubstantiated.”

Cara and Kahlan shared a furtive look, sharing the same thought. A description of the circumstances was valuable, but their questions were far from answered.

“I can’t pretend to know what it means,” Leona continued. “Maybe the banelings grew bored with us after taking all of the men we couldn’t burn. Maybe the lot of them have coalesced elsewhere for a further dark purpose. All I can say is that we have been unbothered for weeks, and that the townspeople have been heartened by it. I don’t know why, but we feel...safe?” She narrowed her eyes before chuckling. “Ending with uncertainty like that is not an action becoming of a councilwoman. Pray, forgive me.”

“No need. We thank you for recounting your affairs for us.” Kahlan, nodding, reached across the desk to touch Leona’s hand. “While it’s encouraging to hear how you all have fared here, I’m afraid we’re left with questions, maybe more than we had before. But, all the same, we are grateful.”

The councilwoman brushed off the formal sentiment with an amiable flick of her fingers. “Save your thanks - we should all play whatever role we can in coming to an end of these grave times.” She touched her chin, narrowing her eyes in thought at Kahlan and Cara. “I’m wondering, in recompense for my lack of clarity, might I offer to put you up here in our town? The beds at our inn are wanting for bodies to warm. You’ll be comfortable and secure here while you take some much-earned rest. It’s the most we can offer - won’t you accept?”

Kahlan and Cara considered one another. A room with a bed was enticing, Cara thought, even in the face of all this insipid uncertainty. Kahlan’s face told her that she felt the same.

“We will gladly and thankfully accept your offer,” Kahlan answered for them with an appreciative bow of her head. “Though, not for long. A night, maybe two. We need to plan and execute our next movements.”

It was Leona’s turn to grasp Kahlan’s hand in a quick burst of excitement. “Whatever you need,” she said genially before standing. “Come. I’ll spare you the tour, as I’m sure you’re exhausted. My niece will be thrilled to receive you.”

“Your niece,” Cara stated flatly, lips pursed, rising to her feet at the invitation. Leona let out a hearty laugh.

“Yes, it’s somewhat of a family affair here. Though I assure you that nepotism is not rampant.”

As they followed Leona out, Cara felt Kahlan clutch her shoulder from behind; she stopped abruptly and turned to face her. Kahlan’s gaze shifted to her feet, then back up to hold Cara’s.    


“I appreciate your help in that conversation. I know Richard is gone. But it was difficult to speak of,” she whispered in an tentative, clipped tone, “with someone who isn’t us.”

Cara’s breath hitched as Kahlan’s face softened, became something warmer, something vulnerable, something trusting and secure. Cara dared not open her mouth, because she knew nothing would come out. She could only sustain Kahlan’s gaze with a restless heart leaping into her throat.

There was an  _ us _ .

Kahlan broke away, then. Cara willed her legs to move. They eventually did.

The afternoon sun that flooded her skin as they stepped into the light did nothing to distract from the billowing of  _ us  _ deep in her chest.

* * *

The Thorncairn inn - half a dozen boarding rooms on the upper level of one of the town’s taverns - was adequate. 

The quarters were small, but the bed looked comfortable. It was warm and dry, and it was also not the inside of a tree; it would do, Cara decided somewhat begrudgingly. The proprietor of the inn (Katrin? Katharine? Cara hadn’t caught her name the first time and saw no point in asking now) was overjoyed by Leona’s referral and had joyously offered them their pick of lodgings. Cara, of course, let Kahlan take the largest and nicest of them. It was the honorable thing to do, she figured.

It was quiet, being alone in this room. Too quiet against the turmoil of her thoughts - the baneling attacks had ended, unanticipated. She trusted that this was true; she and Kahlan had experienced just the same in their solitude. There was something they were missing, something that felt dangerous and mystifying.

How was this place carrying on when they knew the world should have shattered? When their own  _ had _ been shattered? 

Unless.

She stood deathly still next to the neatly-made bed, as if staked at a precarious vantage point during a hunt. Her full-to-bursting pack sat on its side, partially open, on top of the quilt. She pressed her lips together against the tension swelling inside. She was glad she was alone for what she was about to do. With a sigh, she removed one of her gloves with a snappy but deliberate motion.

Without removing anything from her rucksack, she slowly slid the ungloved hand into its main pocket. Her heartbeat quickened. Was there even a chance? She sensed a resilient object and all she had to do was grip it to see…

She closed her bare fist around the hilt of her Agiel and felt nothing but leather.

A caustic, mocking laugh bubbled up from her throat, one intended for herself only. She didn’t know what she had been expecting. 

Still, it stung. A phantom pain. In many ways.

Before she could withdraw her hand, she felt it trace over something incredibly smooth, silky, pliable like a blanket. Though she had never touched it before, she still somehow recognized it by feel. It was an item that definitely did not belong to her. She gently clasped it in her fingers and, pulling it out, was greeted with the pure gleaming white of Kahlan’s Confessor dress. It must have made its way into Cara’s pack by mistake in their haste to break camp.

Holding Kahlan’s dress gave her a very different jolt of sensation from that of any Agiel - one nearly as potent and debilitating, but one she had not yet grown used to.

She had to return the dress to Kahlan before she did something to tarnish or destroy it.

Kahlan’s room was three down from her own. She unfurled the dress as she walked, wishing she could remove the wrinkles using pure intention alone. The door was open, and she rounded the corner without a knock, announcing herself with, “Kahlan, I have-”

Her explanation and inertia was halted by impact with an unforeseen object. Katrin (or was it Kathleen? It did not matter) had been just over the threshold, delivering tea to Kahlan. Cara had nearly launched her across the room with her incautious entrance. The teacup, unfortunately,  _ was  _ launched. Kahlan, seated on the bed, stared at Cara, forehead wrinkled in a surprised expression.

“My apologies,” she muttered, thin-lipped, as the middle-aged innkeeper gathered herself, her skirts, and the now-empty cup. 

“Oh, it’s quite alright, dear, I’ve been knocked about before.” Finally on her feet, she turned to face Cara, brushing herself off. When her eyes rose, Cara watched them go as wide as the saucer she was holding. For a flash, the woman was frozen, mouth agape, and Cara was about to ask frustratedly what the problem was, until she realized.

Her shocked eyes were glued to the dress.

“Oh no,” Cara groaned, going numb, as the woman dropped the teacup again, all but throwing herself to her knees before her.

“Mother Confessor, forgive me,” she begged, almost stupefied, clasping her hands in hasty supplication. “I had no idea it was you. If I had known, I would have immediately pledged myself to your service! Please, I ask your pardon. It is a pure honor to lay eyes on you in person. I am humbled in your presence.”

“ _ What _ ?” Cara, absolutely flabbergasted, managed to sputter. “No,  _ no _ , I am  _ not- _ ”

The sound of Kahlan’s laughter outrang Cara’s stomping protestations, eventually halting them altogether. Peals of it rang in the air, genuine laughter, the kind from deep in her belly, singly uncontrollable at the ridiculous concept of Cara as the Mother Confessor. “Cara, I’m so sorry, I…” she laughed before locking eyes with her, inadvertently throwing herself into another fit of it; she snorted and clapped her hand over her mouth. 

Cara felt her frustrated confusion melt into oblivion in the face of Kahlan’s hysterics. It was entrancing, months’ worth of it pouring forth. Cara was not sure if she had ever felt such warm relief, and she reveled in the weakness of it for just a second. This was Kahlan and Kahlan was surviving; Kahlan was still with her. 

It was infectious, too. This was  _ funny _ . Cara snickered, first, then grinned widely and laughed right along with her at the stark absurdity of it all.

It was the feeling of setting down something heavy, the instant ebbing of pain after releasing her Agiels - like relaxing one’s jaw around a leather strap after enduring a rough stitch through a wound. It was watching Kahlan’s chest rise and fall peacefully, returning to sleep after a nightmare. It was solace.

They calmed themselves when they realized the woman on the floor between them was probably quite unnerved. Kahlan eased her breathing and rose from the bed.

“Katharine, it’s me who should apologize,” she said, doing her damndest to sound dignified despite the laughter still shaking at her voice. “The dress belongs to me - I am Kahlan Amnell. Cara, here, is a Mord-Sith ally to the Seeker, and a friend and protector to me. We did not intend for any harmful deception. Right now it’s crucial that my whereabouts remain secure. My identity has been a matter of discretion.”

Katharine took a second to catch up with the twists and turns before making the necessary correction, taking a knee before Kahlan instead. Reverence flooded her face. “You are safe here in Thorncairn, Mother Confessor. I swear it on all the spirits.”

“I don’t doubt it. You’ve all been very accommodating and welcoming. I think our trust can be placed in you.” She bid Katharine to stand and plucked her dress from Cara’s hands. The laughter, Cara noticed, had reached Kahlan’s eyes, her blue irises light and clear for that moment. For an instant, she wanted to dissipate in them. A look that threatened to break them down again passed between them.

By some means, though barely, held themselves together.

* * *

To no one’s surprise, both Kahlan’s identity and presence in the town were common knowledge and cause for uncommon thrill within the hour.

“Plan’s going  _ tremendously _ well,” Cara had commented with a sardonic click of her tongue as she peered out the window of Kahlan’s room. She frowned at the lingering groups of excited citizens hoping for a glimpse of the Mother Confessor. None of them had seemed to present any malice, but it was the principle of the thing. Kahlan had sighed as she gave a passive shrug of her shoulders. 

“The ruse was bound to end eventually. What else was I supposed to do?”

Cara had muttered something between concession and aggravation under her breath.

After the convoluted reveal, Katharine had sent the most fleet-footed of the young boys loitering outside of the tavern door sprinting to fetch Leona. He returned for his coin with the councilwoman in tow. She was overjoyed but not entirely astonished.

“I knew there was something left unsaid during our discussion. We all know who the Seeker’s closest allies are,” she had said conspiratorially, bending the knee before Kahlan and bowing her head. “Of all the tiny towns in the Midlands, I’m ecstatic that you’ve come across ours.” Her tone was proud and almost motherly as she offered Kahlan a delighted smile. Kahlan motioned for her to rise and took one of her slender hands into her own.

“Thank you for the welcome and your hospitality. We promise not to cause a commotion in your citizens’ lives. We’ll depart tomorrow, or the following day.”

“Oh, Mother Confessor, don’t think you’re leaving us without a feast in your honor,” Leona rebuffed her teasingly.

“Please, I’m flattered, but it’s not necessary. I would not want you to go to any trouble.”

“Nonsense!” Leona tossed her hands into the air. “You heard me say that trade has reopened. We’ve amassed a surplus of foodstuffs over the past few weeks for the first time in a long time. My townsfolk are in need of a reason to celebrate, a boost of morale. Nothing too large, and certainly not the elegance I’m sure you’re used to, but. Would you and your Mord-Sith oblige them by giving them just that?”

Cara crossed her arms over her chest, unsure of how she had gotten mixed up in all of this. And annoyed, because she had a name, too. And also hungry. 

After a blink of consideration, Kahlan answered her question with a small smirk. “I have a feeling you’re not going to take no for an answer.”

“I didn’t become the first woman to be elected Head Councilwoman through half-measures.”

“I suppose not.” Kahlan’s demeanor warmed. “We would enjoy dinner. A  _ simple _ dinner, not a feast. You should not squander your stores on us.”

“That is a request I can grant.”

Cara pointedly eyed Kahlan, who gave that same shrug in reply. Great, Cara thought, another brilliant step towards their goal of laying low.

That was how Kahlan and Cara found themselves in their present situation: sitting at the center of a makeshift dais, flanked by Leona and the remainder of the council. They were all on proud display for the herd of folks crowded into the tiny but booming-loud tavern. Handful by handful, citizens would make their way to the high table, bowing to Kahlan with unhidden thrill in their expressions and gestures. Kahlan received them all formally and warmly, but also quite briefly. 

Cara signaled for one of the barmaids with an indelicate flick of her hand. She couldn’t help but notice that the young woman, though looking somewhat frazzled as she tried to keep up with the demand of quickly-emptied flagons, was plenty pleasing to the eye. She made the journey from across the brimming room, weaving through and dodging pockets of revelry. Cara wordlessly stuck out her tankard, seizing her gaze; the barmaid filled it with a pale autumn ale, looking equal parts intrigued and frightened by her. Good thing, Cara thought, watching her retreat and taking a deep swig. It tasted wonderful to her too-long-abstinent tongue. If they were going through with this, she might as well indulge in the generous libations.

The last woman in the latest line of well-wishers was departing from Kahlan; she allowed herself to sink back in her chair, loosening her stringent posture. Cara took another long drink, observing her over the rim of her mug. She looked exhausted already. This was not at all surprising - all this fuss not even a full day after grief-stricken solitude was overstimulating, a burden to handle. She rubbed at her temple quickly, covertly, squinting down at her lap. Cara clenched her jaw against the worry that yanked at her core. 

“Apparently I should be glad I’m not the Mother Confessor,” she said with measured wryness, just loud enough for Kahlan to hear her over the many mirthful voices and the lute-and-drum duo playing to their left. It was a test of the waters, with the intention and hope to seem unconcerned. “So much asinine talking about nothing, so much bowing and scraping. I’m shocked nobody has yet offered you their prized cow.”

The regal half-smile remained plastered on Kahlan’s face, but a pained sort of discontent loomed in her eyes. “I’ll be honest, I’m not feeling up for this. But this is part of the duty of the Mother Confessor. Really, I serve them - not vice-versa, as they think. They all have to feel heard. This is the other, more onerous side of power and authority. I suppose it’s what I’ve been avoiding in Aydindril since I assumed the title.” 

Cara raised an eyebrow and flopped her elbows onto the tabletop. “I’ll stay with my own kind of power.” One more gulp of the ale, then, to boost and rake up some courage. “We will...get through this together,” she said, questioning right away if she had stammered, if she had spoken too quickly, if she had even managed to say real words. They were just spilling out over a pounding heartbeat. “It’s just a meal, and then we can sleep. These people are loud.”

She then became very preoccupied with a divot in the oaken table, picking at it with a leather-gloved thumb. Kahlan had straightened in her chair and was studying her, she knew. Cara sincerely hoped she would stop

“You’re right,” Kahlan whispered, fingertips brushing against Cara’s nearest elbow. The touch was unnecessary and igniting. The Mord-Sith couldn’t have faced her if she tried. “Surviving this feast is nothing compared to what we’ve faced time and time again. We can ensure this, for Richard’s sake.”

The sound of his name brought a wave of piercing guilt that Cara had to force down with the last quaff of her beer. She raised her tankard for a refill.

As the succulent smell of roasting meat began to permeate the noisy room, Robert moseyed up to the head table, waving their attention. His cheeks were already flushed with his enjoyment of the potables. He wore a wide and watery grin, flourishing two flagons, one in each hand. He took a long draw from one as he set the second in front of Kahlan.

“Mother Confessor,” he said, voice loud and thick with both reverence and booze, “will you join us in a drink to your graciousness, and to the memory of the Seeker?”

His thunderous pronouncement had drawn the heed of gathering; several others took up their own tankards in anticipation. 

Kahlan’s regarded the beverage for a moment before replying to Robert with a gracious, but very tight, expression. The gathering fell silent as she spoke. “I cherish the thought and welcome the salutations, but unfortunately, I’ll have to forego the drink.” The semantics of her gentle rejection carried her along a fine line. Cara was engrossed by her transformation to grand stateliness. The refreshments were getting to her. “I usually refrain from partaking in any intoxicants. But I’d be glad to give my share to anyone with an empty cup.”

Robert nodded his understanding, but could not hide the letdown in his intonation. “No trouble at all. I was hoping you would be keen to raise a toast to your health and to the Seeker in these unknown times. But you can join us in spirit.”

“You can have a drink, Kahlan,” Cara murmured with a surreptitious tweak of an eyebrow, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “This is a party, after all.” 

Her remark was an echo from  _ before _ , from a better time, and it crashed over both of them at once.

Kahlan sighed, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, contemplating the temptation. “One drink,” she said quietly. “For Richard.”

Robert grinned. Despite herself, Cara felt one pull at her mouth too.

The tipsy shopkeeper struggled his way to stand on the bench of the table in front of the dais, nudging the buttocks of a disgruntled few of his compatriots to make room for himself. He held his flagon high and cleared his throat.

“We drink to the Mother Confessor,” he declared, sweeping a pudgy arm towards Kahlan and Cara, “and her lovely friend. We drink to their health and safety, and to the safety of the Midlands, and to the safety of Creator’s whole domain.” He paused, looking briefly at the ceiling. “We drink to the Seeker, to Richard Cypher, Richard  _ Rahl _ , to all of his many names. May we never forget them, or his legendary kindness, or his immense strength. May he rest peacefully, knowing that he is remembered and revered. May he see his journey completed and the world born anew. We drink!”

“We drink!” The words echoed from every section of the tavern as everyone raised their tankards, and then tossed them back. Cara guzzled down the rest of her ale, hoping it would dissolve the numbness that had erupted at Robert’s words. Coming up for air, she watched as Kahlan swallowed a mouthful from her own mug, only to grimace and cough at its hoppy bitterness.

Cara acted quickly.

“Hippocras for the Mother Confessor!” she called out, pushing her empty vessel to the edge of the table and pulling Kahlan’s in front of her, claiming it for her own.

Robert turned, his ruddy cheeks etched with delight. “ _ Hippocras _ !” he cried in repeat.

The barmaid hurried over with a goblet of the sweet spiced wine. Kahlan nodded nervously, helplessly, as she accepted the offering. She raised the goblet to her lips.

“Much more my speed,” she judged after a sip, to the elation of all in attendance.

The first course was delivered - a thick and hearty soup of mushroom and barley - and Kahlan gave the prompt for all gathered to begin eating. Cara wasted no time in digging in ferociously, having forgotten her hunger until just now. Not to mention, this was  _ actual  _ food, prepared by someone actually skilled in the craft of cooking. 

Kahlan took a much more refined bite from her own bowl. “Try not to inhale a mushroom.” 

“I’m starving!” Cara came back gruffly, mouth half-full, tearing off a chunk of oatbread and dipping it into her stew. “How’s the wine,  _ Confessor _ ?”

Kahlan paled and eyed the now-barren goblet of spicewine. Cara raised her eyebrows and let out a dry chuckle. 

She found herself relaxing as Kahlan continued to loosen. She spoke at greater length with the Thorncairn councilors, attending to their tales and their casual petitions. The main course rolled out, and she had her goblet refilled (“Just one more.”) before she ate heartily of the honeyed chicken leg quarters and butter-roasted carrots and squash. Cara had to check herself twice from staring openly as she sucked the meat from a dripping bone.

The merriment continued after the trenchers were cleared. Kahlan drained her fresh goblet and watched, giggling openly, as cocky older boys lined up to challenge Cara at arm wrestling; of course, she beat every one of them). A few tables away, Robert absconded his duty attending to a drunken Vincent (who was now slumped over the table, dead asleep, still gripping his tankard) to approach Kahlan. “The sweets course should be out any moment now. I had a hint of one of your favorites, so I slipped it into the cook’s ear. I hope you enjoy it.”

Just as he said, the stewards delivered the final course to the head table: baked apple tarts, hot and fragrant, with no sparsity of cinnamon. Kahlan smiled at him warmly and sampled hers. She voiced her utter approval and finished it in two more bites.

“Maybe I should be the one warning you about choking,” Cara quipped, picking up her tart between two fingers.

“You know I love apples.”

“The Mother Confessor gets what she desires,” she sighed. “Take mine, if you want. I’m not keen on sweets - they make me feel sluggish.”

Kahlan obliged her, taking the presented morsel and polishing it off. A bit of caramelized apple and pastry crust clung to the corner of her mouth. Cara swallowed hard, thinking that she might enjoy the dessert much more if she had the chance to taste it from there.

Kahlan noticed her stare, narrowing her eyes before realizing her gaffe. She brushed the crumb away with her fingers, flashing Cara a demure grin.

“That wasn’t very becoming of the Mother Confessor, I suppose.” 

Oh, Cara thought, she hardly knew the meaning of the word.

* * *

At some point, it must have begun to rain.

The sound of it sprinkling on the roof had been drowned out by the liveliness of the tavern downstairs, but now, alone in her quarters, Cara watched the ceiling and listened to its hushed drumming. Every so often, the muffled voice of a lingering merrymaker would make its way to the second story, but even they were quiet.

She lay in the bed, buried in the quilt, briefly indulging herself in the comfort of it all. Sleeping on the ground was hardly the worst she’d had to endure, but the soft featherbed was cradling her tight back just perfectly. The bedclothes were soothing on her bare flesh, as she had liberated her body from her leathers before turning in.

It should not have taken much for her to slip into the clutches of sleep - her body was begging for it. But her mind was still churning over something she couldn’t describe or drag from its corners. So she concentrated on the rain, on the staccato sound it made from above, hoping that it would spiral her into unconsciousness, blanking her thoughts and taking her under.

A soft knock at her door distracted her from the attempt to relax. She clenched her jaw, drawing in a slow breath of annoyance, hands balling into fists. “Yes?” she asked through gritted teeth, just loudly enough to be heard in the hallway.

Instead of a voiced response, the door cracked, paused, and then opened the rest of the way. Cara pushed herself up on one elbow, holding the quilt over her nude body, to confront the intruder.

She stopped short when she saw that it was Kahlan. 

She stood in the doorway, holding a candle, dressed down to a simple linen robe that barely reached her knees. Her dark hair was swept back over her shoulders and tied in a knot, exposing the back and sides of her neck. Her shape and angles and eyes were kissed by the shadows of the candle she carried in a way that made Cara’s hands lose feeling with a surge of yearning. Damn it all, she was stunning.

But through the rush of budding arousal, Cara noticed the misty look in Kahlan’s eyes, the way she had slowly leaned over into the doorframe, the way she was just  _ looking _ at Cara without saying anything. It was obvious. Cara pushed through the lust to make a deadpan remark.

“Imagine seeing the Mother Confessor in her cups.”

Cara didn’t have to scrutinize the shadows to see the incensed glare on Kahlan’s face - she could feel it in the air.

“I am  _ not  _ drunk,” she protested, though her voice was heady and her words just a bit slower than usual. “I had two cups of wine. At your urging, I would add.”

Cara shrugged. “You should know I’m not a good influence.”

“You had at least twice as much ale.”

“I can handle my drink better, apparently.”

Kahlan pursed her lips, blowing out through her nose. But she quickly softened again, perhaps remembering what she had come to say.

“I was thinking.” She stopped, tucking a loose section of hair behind her ear. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spent a night alone. It’s a welcome situation to have four walls and a bed. But I’m…” Her eyes darted towards and away from Cara’s in the flickering candlelight. “I leave it up to you, and please refuse if you want, but…” She was stammering, now, and she released a frustrated sigh, and it was the first time Cara had ever seen her have difficulty finding words. “I just think I might sleep more easily...not alone.” Her face tightened. “Maybe here with you.”

The final words were barely whispered, but Cara heard them. It was the nightmares, the terror spells, and the awareness and fear of them. Cara’s heart dropped as she studied Kahlan’s face, marked with timid apprehension, embarrassed to be asking this of her but preferring the embarrassment to being alone.

And Cara understood. There was just one problem. She swallowed and looked at nothing in particular on the ceiling.

“Kahlan, I’m-”

“Needing some space?” Kahlan interrupted her, squirming where she stood and withdrawing towards the hallway. “I understand. No, don’t worry, I’m sure you want some time to yourself. I can go back to my room, I’ll be-”

“ _ No,  _ Kahlan,” Cara hissed, pointedly allowing the quilt to slip down past her bare collarbone. “I’m naked.”

“...oh.”

Kahlan’s eyes had widened but she remained in place.

Cara sighed again; the particular action felt like a habit. Everything clashing inside of her cracked at once. “Just close the door. There’s another blanket in that chest. Fetch it and come here. Unless you want to get under this one with me.” The last instruction was meant to sound biting, not hopeful, and Cara prayed that those signals weren’t mixed on their way from her thoughts to her tongue. “Though I’m sure there are warnings against inviting a drunken Confessor to your bed.”

Kahlan ignored the dig - her shoulders drooped with relief at the invitation. She did as Cara asked, gathering a second blanket as Cara slid over to make room. Kahlan extinguished the candle, leaving nothing but a faint wisp of smoke and them there in darkness.

She slipped into the bed and covered herself, resting her head on the other pillow, looking directly at and straight through Cara.

They were so close together. Cara could smell the sickly-sweet hippocras on Kahlan’s breath. It was perilous. 

“Thank you for this,” Kahlan whispered, eyes somehow aglow yet still teeming with masked sadness. “It’s hard to be alone.”

And Cara realized how she had been missing Kahlan’s body, too. Her head was already calmer. This proximity was the elixir for the racing thoughts, the murky doubts. Here she was. Cara shivered in tandem with a chill up her spine. 

They lay in silence for a time, long or short, Cara didn’t know; were their bodies too close? Not close enough? She was feebleminded here. They just gazed at each other, silently, heavily. All together, Cara wondered what Kahlan was thinking, and if Kahlan could see what she was thinking; the thoughts of how wretchedly she wanted her, about how easy it would be to place one hand on the spot where her thigh met her hip, the other on the back of her neck, to draw her body in, closing the already-minuscule distance, and hungrily claim her mouth.

But Kahlan could not know what she was thinking. So she just looked and looked until she thought the rampant desire might decimate her. 

Just as it might have, Kahlan’s voice broke in over the rain, timorous but true.

“I feel like there’s a lot left unsaid between us.”

Every splinter of Cara’s being froze. Luckily Kahlan continued unprompted.

“That night haunts me, Cara, for reasons beyond the obvious. Beyond Richard. Yes, most nights, I have wicked nightmares about him. About him in pain, suffering horribly, while I’m standing near but unable to help.” A pause, a second of steeling herself. A strong wind made the rain batter the window. “But other nights, I find myself screaming myself awake at the vision of killing you in the Con Dar.”

This was too unreal - Kahlan in her bed, articulating these raw regrets, all of it. She was already naked but suddenly felt more bare. Cara took a deep gasping breath, one she had not noticed she was resisting. Tears stung her eyes and began to mat her eyelashes. She prayed the dark would hide them. 

“I’m wracked with immense guilt about what happened between us. I could never hurt you, Cara. And I can’t stand myself for having almost done so. I’m so sorry.” Kahlan’s voice caught and wavered, Cara could tell her eyes were brimming as well. But she pressed on. “I don’t hate you. I don’t blame you for any of this. And I can’t believe I haven’t yet thanked you for all you did to help me.”

The vindication intended didn’t come. Cara sniffed, part of a bitter half-laugh. “Right. Except, I didn’t. I didn’t have the slightest idea how to help you. I was lost, Kahlan.” She still was. Maybe she was drunker than she thought, herself. All she knew was that her words, when spoken, felt like daggers being pulled out one by one.

She was quieted by the unexpected pressure of Kahlan’s hand on hers, a loose grasp with her palm pressed to the back of Cara’s. Her thumb rubbed gently against her knuckles, and  _ spirits _ , if this is what confession felt like, let it happen to her. She was still holding back tears, and slowly losing the battle against them.

“Of course you did. Give yourself credit, Cara. I shouldn’t have to tell you that you’re not useless.” Cara swallowed against the thickness in her throat. “You kept me safe when I was in no condition to help myself. You grounded me when I felt parts of myself flying away. You’re a true friend and that kept me moving forward against the awfulness I felt, and still feel.” Kahlan nodded, cheek rubbing against her pillow. “And I need you to know that I’m here for you, too. It goes both ways. After all, really...we both lost Richard. We both lost our most important person.”

Cara only had to consider that for a moment. 

She was bonded to Richard by magic, by blood, by duty. She would lay down her life for the Lord Rahl without a thought. It was her very purpose as Mord-Sith. 

But most important? The urgent warmth radiating from her hand to the rest of her body, into her bones, into every little part of her, made it clear. Duty couldn’t describe it. Not anymore.

“Sure,” she said so softly she wasn’t even sure if Kahlan could hear it. 

But Cara did slowly close her hand into a fist, holding just the very tips of Kahlan’s smallest two fingers. Kahlan squeezed back, tighter. Cara imagined pulling Kahlan’s hand in, pressing the Confessor’s palm firmly to the skin between her bare breasts, letting her feel the vulnerable, throbbing heartbeat for which she was to blame. 

But she couldn’t, so she didn’t. 

She caught another whiff of hippocras from Kahlan’s mouth. Their foreheads were nearly touching. She could feel her body heat on her skin even from under the separate bedcover. Kahlan’s eyes were expectant, waiting, wanting words from her, wanting some kind of an invitation to talk about this deep sadness. Their grace, their gentleness, their  _ good _ cut straight through the clamor into Cara’s soul, into whatever part of it she had left.

Cara let out a shaky breath and said the only coherent thing that manifested from the mess of thoughts ricocheting in her head.

“Kahlan.”

“Hm?” The sleepy sound that escaped from Kahlan’s throat was more intoxicating than any ale she could ever drink.

“You smell like a winesink.”

She expected disappointed silence, but heard a soft laugh in the dark instead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick point: I agonized over the decision to have Kahlan drink, given her character and stance. _But_ , I mean, she _does_ get spiced out on DMT with the Mud People in the books, so I figured a couple glasses of wine were fine. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.


	3. We'll All Be Portions for Foxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to leave a note sincerely thanking you lovely folks for reading. I'm having a blast writing this and other pieces and finding my voice again. I hope you'll continue with me on this journey!

The next morning arrived more quickly for one of them than the other.

Sunlight, dense-to-dripping from the night’s rain, spilled through the open window of Cara’s inn quarters. Cara had woken, on the edge-sliver of the bed with two Confessor knees digging into her back, at its first streams. Since then, she had been waiting, trying to keep patience. It was turning difficult - it had been at least two hours since she had opened her eyes, and the scent of cooking sausages wafting up from the tavern was making her stomach growl. But even as her irritation grew, she could not bring herself to interrupt Kahlan’s slumber.

She stood, fully dressed in her leathers, by the edge of the bed. Taking a long sip from her goblet, she continued to watch as Kahlan slept like the dead. 

Over the course of the night, Kahlan had migrated to the very center of the bed, leaving Cara with less and less sleeping space until she was almost off of the cushion entirely. Her blanket, kicked off and wriggled out of at some point, was wrapped around her lower leg; luckily for Cara, her robe had somehow preserved her modesty. Her knees - the knees that had been lodged tight against Cara’s kidneys for hours - were drawn up to her chest. Both of her arms were tucked between them, reaching straight down. It looked entirely uncomfortable, but Cara must have been wrong, as Kahlan seemed plenty content.

Kahlan’s arms had been in that awkward position since Cara left the bed. Just before that, her free top arm had carved out a drowsy path across Cara’s ribs from behind, her hand settling loosely just below Cara’s blanket-hidden breasts. At that point, Cara had to gently but immediately extricate herself from the situation. The contact was innocent, accidental, but the bedlinen was much too thin of a barrier for Cara to handle it with intact sanity.

Cara’s heart staggered for the briefest moment as her eyes settled on Kahlan’s face. She was not showing one single sign of waking. Her mouth was wide open against the pillow, drawing in and releasing deeply relaxed breaths. Every so often, a delicate rattle would escape from the back of her throat. She looked so tranquil and cozy and enticing that if Cara had not been clothed for the day, it would have been hellishly hard to resist the temptation to join her back in the bed. Just to lay close to the shape of her, to share her heat, to breathe in her scent as she dozed back off. Cara’s stomach twisted into one huge knot at the very thought. 

Despite the most obvious reason for that impossibility, there was no time for dozing. Cara was used to not wasting time. There had always been another step to take, another task to be accomplished, another infuriating diversion from their path spurred on by Richard’s overabundant righteousness. But now, in the absence of a further charge, Cara was somehow feeling even more restless inside. They had to keep moving. The twitchy feelings in her limbs, though, was not enough to make her rouse Kahlan. She could not ruin Kahlan’s first night of complete and peaceful rest since the revelation of Richard’s demise. Kahlan had visibly drifted off moments after Cara’s final comment to her the previous night, and she had maintained the near-stupor since. No turbulent convulsions, no helpless shouting, no terrors.

The hippocras must have helped, Cara figured.

The longer Kahlan slept, too, the longer Cara could avoid the potentiality of rehashing the words Kahlan had said - the words they _both_ had said - the previous night. Cara glared at nothing in particular as an unbridled testiness flushed over her skin. Mindless, dewy-eyed, self-indulgent fragility serving nothing but her own annihilation. _A true friend_. That was fine, that was great. She hated that she wanted so much more. 

She was used to wanting things she could not have.

If Kahlan brought up any part of their troublesome exchange, Cara would evade. Push back and away. Deflect, just as she had while they were leaving Dunshire, after being locked in that godforsaken tomb with the Confessor and spewing that first bit of affection for her. Instead of _delirious from lack of air_ she would say _I did have too much ale_ or _I was exhausted and you disturbed my rest_ or _I couldn’t think straight with your mouth so close to mine._

Maybe not the third. She drank it down with another gulp from the goblet in her hand. 

Kahlan finally began to stir, then, as if reacting to the misguided thought. She groaned quietly, propping herself up on one elbow, and Cara made herself look anywhere else but the spot where her shifting had caused her robe to slip off of one shoulder. “Was I asleep?” she mumbled thickly, rubbing one eye with three of her fingers, the other half-open and on Cara. “Were you...watching me sleep?”

Cara took in the way she yawned, how she stretched out her top arm, at how her hair was disheveled on the side that had been resting on the pillow, and became downright angry at how adorable she was. It was infuriating. She channeled the rising heat into a wisecrack reply.

“I was just making sure you were still breathing. It’s already past mid-morning. We’re about to miss breakfast - you’ve nearly starved me out.”

“I’m sorry. You could have woken me.” Cara let out a tiny huff of regret. She hadn’t aimed to garner an actual apology. “I slept well, but I guess I’m still a little slow this morning.” Kahlan shrugged languidly, but then squinted and gave her forehead a rub, just above her eyebrows. Cara noticed this and, forgetting the penitence, smirked.

“Feeling the Creator’s wrath after last night’s debauchery?” She raised her eyebrows and sucked her teeth at Kahlan in mock disdain. Kahlan shook her head and rolled her eyes, combing her fingers through her messy hair.

“Please, I’m just tired.” She went to sit up more fully, and the motion made her wince and press on her forehead again. Cara gave her a dubious look. “Okay. I admit, maybe I am feeling a bit affected. Is there water?” Cara pointed to the pitcher and cup she had fetched from downstairs, along with the drink in her own hand, on the bedside table. Kahlan gave her an appreciative nod and filled the cup, drinking greedily when it was full. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as daintily as she could. “I don’t understand how anyone makes a habit of drinking. This cropsick feeling doesn’t seem worth it.”

“Most true drunkards manage to get a little looser than you did,” Cara said, gesturing towards Kahlan. “Besides, you hardly drank two cups. I don’t think you need to be concerned about becoming a lush. Now, I was being serious about breakfast. I’m hungry and a little grease will do you well right now.”

Kahlan pursed her lips and gave Cara a befuddled glare. “You outdrank me by volumes last night, and you can stomach the thought of food right now? How are you so wide-awake and ready for the day?”

And Cara didn’t mention the hours she had already been awake. She didn’t mention the knees in her back or the arm encircling her and pulling her in from behind, or the dread of a revisit of last night’s words burrowed deep in her chest. She didn’t mention the way each one of her senses had been ignited past the maximum as she lay in that bed with Kahlan. 

Instead, she leaned over and held her quarter-full cup of ale under Kahlan’s nose, grinning wickedly as she answered.

“Hair of the dog that bit me.”

Kahlan, grimacing, turned a particular shade of pale green and pushed the goblet away.

* * *

After forcing herself through the first few bites of breakfast, Kahlan acknowledged that Cara had been correct. Eating the fried bread was bringing about a sort of revival; it was draining the ache from her head and giving her sour stomach something to churn over. She was beginning to perk up. Every so often, she nodded genially to the tavern’s other patrons who dared to steal a venerational glance towards their private table. 

Cara dragged her own wedge of bread through an egg yolk and scooped it into her mouth. Her body also was responding favorably to the sustenance; she had felt underfed for long now, and was starting to feel stronger and sharper again. “See?” she said after she swallowed. “I told you a meal would help with the gallon distemper. You don’t look like you’re a hair’s breadth from vomiting anymore.”

Kahlan nodded. “And I didn’t need any ale to help the process along,” she teased, gesturing towards Cara’s second flagon. Cara sighed at the comment and drank deep from it out of spite. “Honestly, until we sat down, I thought you were just trying to get me out of bed because _you_ were hungry. I’m glad I was wrong in my assumption.”

Cara shrugged easily in reply. “I _was_ hungry. I was also right.” She polished off her last bite of bread. 

Kahlan returned her attention to her plate, starting in on a sausage link. For a few moments, silence prevailed between them, enveloped in the indistinct buzz of mundane conversation around them. Cara wasn’t one to admit comfort, but that was precisely what this was. Alone, together, but no longer isolated. A world of their own within the other world, undeterred by the cluelessness regarding how long it would last. Cara could have sat like that for hours and been satisfied. Of course, though, Kahlan had to go and ruin it with the words she had been dreading.

“I’m aware that you probably don’t need or want to hear it, but I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate you sharing your bed with me last night.” Cara forced herself not to look away, though it felt like she was being shredded inside. Pushing herself to be engaged, she could hear that Kahlan’s voice was mostly ordinary, with just a trace of timidity, a kind she allowed to be there, imperfection somehow creating perfection. She was looking at Cara warmly through her dark lashes, half-smiling and assured despite the vulnerability she willingly gave away. “We’ve been together for so long. I would have understood if you needed a break from me.”

For the second time that morning, Cara felt a confused temper surface from somewhere in her rib cage. Kahlan was showing these things she needed to strengthen a connection, all of the soft things Cara was not, all of the things she did not know how to be. Tender, unveiled, open. Things she felt but couldn’t show. Kahlan was doing the unfathomable; why could Kahlan do what she couldn’t?

She could force herself to try, just for a moment. _You have something to say. Something you want to say. Say it._ It didn’t have to be profound or ornamented. Just something. She imagined the coercive jab of an Agiel before she spoke.

“I was glad for it too.” Her response toppled out on a single exhalation, and the act of saying it did not feel as agonizing as the seconds before saying it. She held her breath afterwards, willing herself to keep any volatile stray phrases inside. 

Kahlan’s smile grew from half to full and it was almost enough to incinerate her.

“That means a lot to me, Cara.”

Forgetting herself and only partially caring, Cara let herself return a degree of Kahlan’s thankful look before busying herself with a big bite of bacon. Unlike during their departure from Dunshire, she did not feel the immediate need to rescind her statement.

A man, black of hair and broad-shouldered, sauntered past the table behind Cara. She felt his gaze linger on them for longer than necessary. Not threatening, Cara decided, but annoying nonetheless. She had a mind to turn and give him the biting suggestion to steer clear, but he was gone before she could. “It seems that the Mother Confessor can’t even enjoy a simple breakfast without the ever-present eyes of her devotees,” she observed, stabbing the fried white of her last egg with her knife and dropping it in her mouth in one piece. “Seems burdensome.”

Kahlan tilted her head and subtly raised one eyebrow at Cara. “While you’re right about that in general, you’re wrong about _this_ particular moment.” Kahlan shook her head. “His eyes were definitely locked on you.”

Cara sneered. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Typical for a man to respond like a dog around a woman’s body in tight garments.” Kahlan had no reply beyond a tight-lipped, vaguely uncomfortable smile. Cara was about to poke her further when another tavern patron passed too close to their table to be considered an accident. This time, it was a woman, close to their age; she was short in stature, but looked lithe of body under her dress. As she strolled slowly and purposefully past, she absentmindedly fingered her chin-length curls and locked her fulsome brown eyes on Cara’s. They gleamed suggestively as she turned her head to keep the connection, looking over her shoulder as she moved further, nearly biting her lip before she finally turned on her way. Cara sucked the inside of her cheek and had to think twice about pulling her eyes from the girl’s receding body.

Kahlan tucked her chin and gawked at Cara, incredulous. “The man? That was maybe a curious glance.” She laughed nervously. “That woman just gave you a full-on _proposition._ ”

Cara did her best to shrug nonchalantly in spite of the situation’s squirming discomfort. The last thing she needed was for Kahlan to think she was attracted to that woman (though, plainly, she _was_ attractive). “Probably just trying to hook a new customer, if you understand my meaning.”

“It’s a possibility,” Kahlan conceded. “I’m actually shocked you haven’t yet found the brothel. It seems to be your first stop in most of the towns we’ve come across.”

It was intended as a playful ribbing, but to Cara, the words were a low blow. She frowned at Kahlan, placing her palms on the table and leaning in towards her. “That was _one_ brothel.” She quickly reconsidered, thinking back. “Maybe two. Three, at the highest possible number. And _never_ for the reason everyone else in creation visits one.”

“I know, Cara, I know. I was just teasing,” Kahlan reassured her, giving a half-suppressed laugh and showing her palms in innocence. “But I will say in seriousness that you _do_ garner a fair amount of...attention, wherever we go.”

Cara flashed a cocky grin. “It’s the leather,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “The Mord-Sith are feared, surely. And rightly. But I’ve realized there’s a sense of attraction in the intimidation,” she described. “People are enticed by power and strength, as well as the pleasure that can arise from pain and fear. It draws plenty of interest.”

Kahlan heard the end of the explanation, and her eyes slipped away from Cara, up to the ceiling instead. “Along with the fact that you’re gorgeous.”

And Cara had to stop her jaw from hitting the table.

She blinked twice at Kahlan, utterly dumbstruck, smacked upside the head by Kahlan’s flippant phrase - spoken as though it was the most obvious and commonplace observation a person could make. The Confessor just faintly cleared her throat, placed her flatware on her empty plate, and pushed it aside. Cara wanted to ask for clarification, but her voice was lost somewhere in her throat. Her now-rapid heartbeat would have drowned it out anyway.

There was no way she had said that. And if she had said it, there was no way she meant it. And if she had meant it, there was no way she meant it like _that_. Cara’s mind rejected it as singularly ludicrous. 

“ _What_ did you say?” she finally sputtered, realizing too late that her voice had cracked.

But the moment had passed. Kahlan had moved on to the next private thought, which Cara’s stunned outburst had apparently interrupted. She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose at Cara in confusion. “What did I say about what?”

Cara, at a loss, shook her head and dropped the issue with a wave of her hand - but not before glowering suspiciously at her tankard of ale, wondering if it had been spiked with some sort of hallucination elixir.

* * *

The blacksmith wound a rag through and around his hands, compulsively but also distractedly, in a futile attempt to rub the grime from them as the Mother Confessor looked over his works. 

“Cyril is one of the prides of our town,” Leona spoke up from behind, giving plenty of distance between their bodies in the sweltering smithy. The heat being thrown from the forge had sweat beading at Cara’s upper lip and chest. She watched as Kahlan gathered her long hair over one shoulder, exposing the back of her neck, covered in a fine sheen of perspiration; she then promptly looked away. “You won’t find a more skillful blacksmith from here to Aydindril.”

“So it would seem,” Kahlan agreed with a discerning nod, smiling approval at his array of manufactures. “This is all quite proficiently forged. Tell me, where were you trained?”

“I completed my apprenticeship in Tamarang,” he replied, bowing his head humbly to hide the excitement on his weather-beaten face at Kahlan’s compliment. “It was a long time to be far away from home, but all I learned made the years worth it. Even more apparently, now! If someone had told me then that I would eventually be face to face with the Mother Confessor, directly providing her with these goods I made myself, I would have thought them an idiot.”

Cara sighed to herself at the aggrandizing, but even she had to concur - these were fine weapons he was offering. She ghosted a gloved finger along the careful engraving on one of the blades displayed before them. 

Leona had arranged to meet with them that afternoon to discuss anything the town could provide for them before they continued on. The smithy was the first stop, as Kahlan had requested weapons maintenance and, perhaps, further arms in general. Cyril’s apprentice had already nearly finished sharpening and repairing Kahlan’s daggers and Cara’s knife, working at breakneck speed for their esteemed visitors. Cyril had laid out all of his completed pieces, encouraging them to take whatever they desired.

“They’re all so well-crafted. It’s hard to make a selection,” Kahlan said.

“If I may, Mother Confessor.” Cyril bowed again. “I’m no master-at-arms, but I have a head for connecting a spirit with a weapon. Like your Mord-Sith, for example. She’s been eyeing that battle axe, there, the one with the short staff.”

Cara looked up from the double-headed axe with a surprised, almost automatic glare. Not angry, she decided. She just hadn’t realized he had been watching so closely. He nodded and gestured briskly, encouraging her to pick it up. She did, holding it from the handle’s end, testing its weight and balance. “Light enough for one-handed use in close combat, while also hefty enough for a damaging throw,” he described. “Brutal, efficient, and versatile, not unlike its wielder.”

She considered the weapon for just a moment longer before glancing up at him, sharply, through her lashes. “Yes. This will do.” She nodded, giving the weapon an experimental flick. The axe was heavier than an Agiel, but the blade was a powerful negotiator. When she felt Kahlan’s eyes burning into her, she quickly added, “Thank you. For your generosity.”

“As for the Mother Confessor…I can tell by the wear on your daggers that you wield small weapons with immense capability **.** Perhaps expanding your arsenal means diversifying it.” Cyril signaled for them to wait as he turned towards the near wall and carefully lifted a hand-and-a-half sword from its mount. Its steel glinted in the forge’s glow as he held it out for them on display. “This bastard sword is my fairest work. It’s no Sword of Truth, of course, but I pray that it would be worthy of you.”

Kahlan reached out to take hold of the offered sword, supporting each end with just her fingertips. It was a handsome weapon, with a two-edged tapered blade and an intricately-designed hilt and pommel. It radiated earned power and intensity, just like her. Seeing her with it, Cara was at once struck by the phantom ring of the Sword of Truth as Kahlan unsheathed it from her back-hanging baldric, preparing to fight with the Sisters of the Dark during their first time alone together. The bold memory gave way to an empty crumbling feeling as she noticed Kahlan’s face stiffen. Peering down at the sword must have been like a knuckle digging into a hidden but fresh bruise, a kick to the back of the knee, like being pulled under the water’s surface after a temporary moment of floating. A crack in the visage.

She could have said something. She _should_ have said _something_ , should have reached out. But Cara did not manage to do anything before Kahlan’s controlled, prim smile regained its hold.

“This blade is lovely, but I would be remiss to take your proudest work. There must be something else.”

“Forget my proudest work - it would be my life’s proudest honor to know you carry that sword.”

“Then I will have to carry it well.” The customary response. “We appreciate your generosity. Expect to be repaid in full, with extra beside, when I reach Aydindril. I will also send three of the city’s most promising new apprentices to receive their training under you.” Cyril looked like he would have been perfectly satisfied without any recompense at all, but gave a deep bend of silent accord regardless.

After they gathered their mended weapons and allowed themselves to be outfitted with the new equipment, Kahlan and Cara stepped out of the suffocating air of the smithy behind Leona. The waning summer’s sun was high above them and still blazing hot, but the open air and mellow breeze made it far more bearable. Cara indulged in both a deep breath and a final weighty glimpse at Kahlan, sword-fitted and looking fierce as she should have, before returning to plain reticence.

“I will raise this one last time: you’re certain you won’t accept an armed accompaniment for at least a segment of your journey?” Leona asked as they carved their way through the townsfolk going about their business on the street. Kahlan and Leona returned as many of the deferential bows as they could manage without breaking stride. One older man bent far at the waist for Cara, and she almost laughed in his face.

Kahlan shook her head after smiling at another obeisant curtsy. “No, Leona. We couldn’t dream of taking any more of Thorncairn’s fighting men away from here,” she assured kindly but firmly. “It will be more unassuming, anyway, if Cara and I travel on our own. All we ask for is weapons, horses, and provisions. Everything else we will handle on our own. We’re used to it that way.”

Leona opened her mouth in what was surely the start of some properly complaisant reply, but another voice broke in over the thrumming of the town square, panicked and shrill.

“ _Look out!_ ”

Cara reacted reflexively to the sudden motion at the edge of her vision. With a quick hop and agile reach of a single arm, she blocked the oblong leather ball from walloping Leona in the head. She tucked it into her chest as she landed. “Swift hands,” Leona remarked in a half-gasp, placing her own hand to her heart, startled at the blur of action. The owner of the projectile - a school-age boy, slight of build but sinewy, wearing a floppy hat - was already bounding over to them from the group of children at play across the square. The others watched him approach the women, some of them aghast at the potential consequences, the remainder snickering to themselves at his misfortune. He stopped in front of them, head hung low, fists at his sides.

“I’m sorry, Councilwoman,” he mumbled to Leona. “I’m sorry, Mother Confessor. I’m sorry...other lady.” Great, Cara thought. “They all told me I couldn’t kick the ball this far. I guess I proved them wrong.”

Leona gave the boy a good-natured cuff on the ear and then lifted his chin. “It’s alright, Olly. Nobody was hit. Maybe work on your aim. Ask for the ball back and return to your play.”

“May I please have the ball?” Olly asked Cara with an usure, gap-toothed smile. Cara gripped the ball with one hand and placed the other on her hip.

“You want it back?” she asked with a smug half-smile. The boy nodded, more visibly uneasy. “Alright, I’ll give it back.” She flicked her wrist at him, motioning for him to step back. He did, once. She repeated the motion. He looked back over his shoulder, confused, and took another step. Cara continued urging him to move away until he was far across the way, even beyond where his friends were gathered. He looked utterly bewildered for the whole journey.

Satisfied, Cara dropped the ball from waist-height and gave it a solid kick, sending it soaring safely over the heads of the walkers-by and right into Olly’s eagerly-outstretched hands. The rest of his group erupted with excited chatter, one jabbing the next to ask Cara to join them. Cara turned away from them to find Kahlan staring at her with a narrow-eyed unbelieving grin.

“You surprise me.” She gave a half-suppressed laugh of astonishment.

“You think a Mord-Sith can’t kick a ball thirty meters?” Cara hurled back, crossing her arms. Then, she softened, only slightly. “We played a similar game in Stowecroft. I was a scrawny thing, like him, but could always kick well.”

“Still, that was almost sweet,” Kahlan said with a playful wrinkle of her nose and glimmer in her crystal blue eyes. Thoughts of the Sword of Truth had seemingly dissolved. “The Cara I met a year ago probably would have eaten that boy.”

Cara struggled to put together a reply, caught somewhere between defending her honor ( _I’m a Mord-Sith, not a cannibal, Kahlan_ ) and defending her ruthlessness ( _I was simply trying to get him as far away from me as possible_ ) when Vincent emerged from the crowd, waving his hand frantically, red-faced and moving awkwardly in his armor. Cara stopped grasping for words when she saw him, instead questioning if he was ever _not_ panicking.

“Grandmother, Mother Confessor!” he called, panting with ardor as he reached them.

“What’s happening?” Leona asked sharply, instantly concerned with his tone.

“There’s a woman at the gates demanding to see the Mother Confessor,” he gasped, bent over with his lanky arms on his knees. “I tried to turn her away, but she kept speaking all of this babble I didn’t understand and repeating that she knew the Mother Confessor was here. The commander has her in custody now. I came for you at once.” Breath finally caught, he straightened. “She seems to be a truly odd person, the way she talks. She’s also not dressed for the weather. _Furs_ , in the dead of summer. She looks...very warm.”

Cara and Kahlan exchanged a grim look at the description - vague as it was, they had an inkling, apparently shared. Cara felt some potent mix of adrenaline and dread hit her veins.

Was this the moment of answers - or just more complicated questions? 

Kahlan’s eyes, stern and stony, moved to Leona, then to Vincent. She spoke clearly and calmly, but sharply all the same.

“Take us to her.”

Cara wondered if she would get to test out her new battle axe.

* * *

Vincent’s observation was astute. Shota looked like she should have been boiling alive in her long dress and thick white fur shawl. If she was uncomfortable, she betrayed nothing - she just stood calmly in the tiny, unadorned holding cell, flanked by watchmen. Self-satisfaction crawled all over her angular face as she eyed her new visitors. 

On the walk to the bridewell, Kahlan had raised the hood of her dark travelling outfit and steeled herself for this colloquy and whatever it might bring. Cara could see that she was tense; her jaw was clenched tight to match Kahlan’s energy. Her own encounters with the witch woman hadn’t exactly been positive and she knew that Kahlan’s were a mixed bag, at best. Cara had locked eyes with her when they wear nearly to the cell, hoping to convey a look of support to cut through the terseness.

It might have helped momentarily, but face to face, deadlocked in this phase of silent distinguishing, the disharmony had grown tenfold.

Kahlan spoke first, judicious, circumscribed. “You’re quite a journey from home. I’m assuming I can feel relief that Agaden Reach is all in one piece?”

Shota smirked and answered, just as deliberate **.** “I can only hope that’s the case. I’ve been away for months, searching for you. You’re a difficult woman to find, Kahlan Amnell.”

“With good reason.”

“ _As long as the Mother Confessor’s pure heart beats, the Keeper is doomed to fail._ ” Cara’s ears rang. Shota punctuated her statement by drawing her eyebrows up and together. If Kahlan was nonplussed by her verbatim recitation of the prophecy from the People’s Palace, she did not let it show.

“I’d love to hear how I was found, then.”

“I had a vision of you at this town’s gates, just yesterday,” Shota explained. “I happened to be close enough to reach you here - fate was kind, and it is not always. I rode all night. I nearly ran my horse into the ground. It seems I made the right choice.”

“Be glad you found us here and didn’t stumble upon us in the wilderness,” Cara chimed in, voice like silken poison, moving toward Shota with her arms crossed and chest puffed out. She placed herself one step between the witch woman and Kahlan in an unobtrusively protective manner. “Much more space to hide a body out there than here.”

Shota had the audacity to scoff at her, and Cara felt that unbridled, madcap rage erupt within and through her. “You’re clearly an...adequate protector for the Mother Confessor, Mord-Sith, but please, don’t try to intimidate me. I know your Agiels have gone lame.” The scathing comment did nothing to quell the surge. Through its near-blindingness, Cara noticed Kahlan balk in the slightest manner. “Besides, I haven’t come as a threat. I will not use magic for you to turn against me. I’ve come to help. To deliver a message, a new prophecy.”

“What makes you think we want your help, or your prophecy?” Kahlan’s voice was unimaginably soft, but threw a reverberating chill to every corner of the antechamber all the same. “Why should we believe you, now, when you’ve conspired against us at every turn? You’ve done nothing but meddle, even stealing the Sword of Truth and the compass from the true Seeker. Everything you’ve done has been to serve your own ends. You are certainly powerful, I cannot deny that. But I’d like to wash my hands of it.”

“I haven’t served a single one of my own ends - only the ends of prophecy. Because despite how you might feel about them, Kahlan, all of my visions _have_ come to pass.” Shota kept her voice even in the face of the accusation, tilting her chin in self-appointed victory. “Richard was betrayed by the one in white. He defeated Darken Rahl, after finding a second copy of the Book of Counted Shadows. And now, Richard Rahl has failed in his quest to defeat the Keeper.”

Silence. 

Cara scowled at the woman so mightily she could have strained something. Kahlan just stared, pain and grief circling just beneath the surface, and she wrestled invisibly with them, trying not to bend and break at their will.

“Yes, dear one,” Shota continued, and Kahlan bristled at the nauseatingly sweet false affection. “I felt his and Zeddicus’s souls vanish from this world two moons ago. I knew I had to find you to assure myself of your safety and help you to discover what you must do next.”

“If you know so well, then just _tell us_ , sorceress,” spat Cara, last nerve sliced open by Shota’s infuriating way of saying so much without saying anything at all.

A pause. For the first time, Shota’s face took on a brief pallor of misgiving **.** Her tongue darted out over her lips as she pushed a heavy curtain of auburn hair back from her face.

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple,” she sighed, and Cara could have screamed at the utter ridiculousness of the reluctant utterance after all of that posturing. “I sense a great disbalance between the Underworld and our world - a debt, something missing. New visions have only come to me in piecemeal since I felt the shift. I’m afraid they don’t make much sense as instructions, but are mere flashes and pantomimes of things to come. It’s my hope that they will aid you even in their fragmented state.”

”I’m not sure I can accept any of this, frankly. But if you feel this immense need to, just tell us,” Kahlan echoed Cara’s demand, barely in a whisper. Cara knew that Kahlan had been tapping into her Confessor power, scrutinizing all that Shota had so far said, analyzing her phrases and movements down to the letter and the very way she blinked her eyes. She must have been telling the truth if Kahlan was inviting her to speak further.

“I know you must return to Aydindril and take your rightful and permanent place as the Mother Confessor,” Shota began with a sanguine nod. “This I have seen clearly. A tempest approaches on the winds. It will come to pass by the equinox.”

“A tempest.” Kahlan closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “What sort of tempest?”

“Just that.” Shota was suddenly staring vacantly off into the distance behind them, her mind no longer occupying her body but floating somewhere else entirely, wrapped up in what she had foreseen. “I see two hearts and a triplicate divide, twice over. I see a burgundy flower, more lovely than I can describe, adorned with petals of elegance, past union, and betrayal alike **.** A touch over jagged white; the same touch on burning flesh. Pain in duty and duty in pain, both necessary to ascend. All of this, I see for you.”

With a long blink, Shota’s focus returned to the bodies around her. 

“As I said, it’s not a road map.” She shook her head. “But it’s a starting point. Kahlan, you must return to Aydindril in order to confront whatever is coming. You will see these things come to pass just as I have. As I once told Zeddicus, you cannot pick and choose which prophecies to believe. They occur outside of your understanding and acceptance of them. To be aware of them is to be prepared, and to be prepared is to survive.”

Kahlan, expression hard as marble, held Shota’s gaze for a few rigid moments of consideration. Finally, she asked simply:

“Is that all?”

Shota was finally without words. She gave a single nod.

“Thank you for the warnings.” Kahlan’s voice was void of emotion. “I will reflect on what you have told us. Know that I will go to Aydindril and take up my seat. I don’t know how to feel about your _flashes_ and _pantomimes_ , but my plans already matched your first urging.”

A sincere smile, relieved, even, broke across Shota’s high cheekbones. “That’s all I can ask, Mother Confessor. The events have been set in motion.”

Kahlan did not smile back.

“Guards, please escort her one full league outside of the city limits, then let her go in peace.”

They did as they were commanded, each lightly but persuasively grasping one of her arms and all but carrying her along with them; her feet shuffled helplessly against the stone floor as they marched. As they guided her around Kahlan, Cara blocked the Mother Confessor’s body with her own, maintaining her icy glare, her deep burning anger. As Kahlan turned away to compose herself, Cara trailed them out of the cell ( _just to be sure_ ) and into the bridewell’s vestibule.

“I’m glad you followed, Mord-Sith,” she said, twisting her head back and digging in her heels against the force all but carrying her forward. Cara’s upper lip flared and she held out a brusque hand to the guards, who promptly stopped in their tracks. 

“I have a name.”

“So you do,” Shota conceded. “And, irrespective of what you might think, I have a conscience. I wanted to apologize for the harsh comment about your weapons. I cannot imagine how traumatic it has been for you, having your vital bond to your master severed, but suffering in silence while tending so carefully to another.”

Cara tried not to feel very small.

“If it is of any comfort to you at all, I will tell you not to fret. I’ve seen a vision of what is to come for you as well. I wasn’t sure it was possible to see a Mord-Sith’s future, but, apparently, the wonders never cease. You _will_ be bonded to another, Cara Mason. One dark of hair and finest of face.”

Cara did not let Shota see her smoldering reaction. She instead whipped around, facing straight away, holding her leather-gloved fists to her belly in an attempt to contain the wrath and rawness and disorientation the words had dredged up from below. The sound of her proper name, a dead name, buried and now exhumed, spoken so unaffectedly and flippantly, was nothing short of splintering. It was like a reckoning, like another breaking, one short and precise but no less savage in its brevity.

She heard the guardsmen’s heavy footsteps pick back up; she listened in mute affliction until they faded out of earshot.

Through the churning, Cara wondered how quickly they could drag the sorceress a league away. 


	4. Sitting Over These Bones I've Thrown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick things I'd like to briefly point out to aid in your reading! First, note that the tags for this work are being continuously updated as chapters are added. It might be in your favor to pay attention to them for your own benefit! Second, I'm drawing a lot from _Temple of the Winds_ for this story (but NO Drefan Tightpants Rahl don't worry), so you can expect to see that becoming apparent in this chapter and beyond.

Cara knelt.

It had been a command to do so. 

A one-word order - not spat at her in a flourish of severity, not accompanied by a hiss of disgust or vitriol. Not what she deserved. One calm syllable, spoken coolly, nearly bored. _Kneel_. 

Despite the chilling apathy behind the order, Cara had fallen to the position in one sudden motion, as if the backs of her legs had been taken out with a club. She was compelled to obey by a force beyond herself; she had been moved by the indelible tether that bound her to the figure peering down at her in judgement.

For all of the momentum behind her collapse, Cara did not feel her knees smashing gracelessly into the stone floor below. All of her sensation was focused between her fists, on the screaming Agiel clasped within them. The searing pain cascading from her hands to her wrists, through her shoulders to her neck and head only made her clutch the reawakened weapon more desperately. The pain was her sanctuary. It had been so long since she had the privilege to endure it. 

It also would not be long until it was over.

With every part of her rigid and fraught, save for the head slung low with inescapable shame, she had offered the Agiel to him, imploring a choice of her manner of execution. She had served him well - she had been the only Mord-Sith to serve him at _all._ That had to be worth some sort of merit, even in the face of her trespasses.

But there were no half-measures here. Cara knew that _almost_ did not count. _Almost_ was failure. She had earned this and nothing more, nothing less.

She requested that her punishment be performed with her Agiel - to be destroyed by the same instrument that had created her. To close the circle and wipe her away like some unsightly, insignificant smudge, before she could add to the list of damages she had caused. She knew he could wield the weapon. She could tell him the most efficient way to carry it out. She would tell him, he would do it, and then it would be over.

Stonefaced, he had denied her plea.

So she crumpled at his order, still grasping her Agiel, numb to everything but its wailing and the racket of discordant thoughts buzzing in and out of her awareness. Death in dishonor. Deliberate betrayal of Master Rahl. All stemming from a lack of discipline entirely her fault; all for a ridiculous hope and desire she chose not to control. She had sworn to protect Kahlan. She had disobeyed - she had taken that order to selfish treachery. There was no space for impunity in the face of this broken trust. 

She felt tears streaming down her face and did not know how or when they began. She had done no harm. But he had known everything, despite his passing absence. He knew what she desired. Her thoughts and her longing were criminal enough.

How would it be carried out, then? Death by confession, performed by the one standing beside him? The most painful option, the most humiliating, but also undeniably the most fitting consequence of her idiotic and hapless yearning. The touch she had wanted (and still somehow wanted, even now, in this very moment) more than air itself would be the touch to end her.

No, he was stepping forward. He was the Lord Rahl - he was Richard Rahl, and he was here, in front of her, and not in the Underworld. He needed no executioner. He gave the sentence; he would dole out the punishment. His dark eyes were intent on hers, hard, icy, keeping them captive. But, he was calm. Not filled with unbridled rage like that time long ago. He was not a jealous lover. He was simply her master, prepared to implement the penalty for her insolence.

As he towered over her, she forced herself to keep her eyes open. She would give him the respect of looking into his eyes as he took her life as recompense. It was his due in the mess of all this. 

Kahlan, still standing behind Richard, just watched in silence. An unreadable expression was scratched across her captivating features. Cara had no right to know what she thought.

Richard drew the Sword of Truth; its steel ring, once a dynamic rallying call, was a loud warning of the end. Cara swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. Her Agiel hit the floor as her arms fell to her sides. Her breathing had turned to ragged gasps, taking in air so fast it felt like she wasn’t taking in any at all. She channeled her final act of discipline into keeping hold of his unemotional gaze.

Cara watched as he raised the sword over his head with both hands. His knuckles were white and his eyes were aflame with righteous indignation - these signs of immense power, immense strength. She was proud to have served him. She was ashamed of her current position.

And she was terrified of him, of all of this.

With all his might, Richard heaved the weapon down, ready and eager to cut her right in two.

Some unseen source of light glinted off of the blade’s surface as it sliced towards her. The end to all of this, so final and bitter and releasing and rightful.

In the instant before the fatal contact, her penitent resolve splintered. Weakness overcame her blood, breached through all the rest. Cara looked away from Richard. Through the overbrimming tears, her eyes searched desperately for Kahlan’s. She needed one last look of comfort before Kahlan and Richard never had to concern themselves with her again. She needed so much.

But when she looked at Kahlan, she saw that Kahlan was looking down.

* * *

Cara’s eyes snapped open as she moved from dream to lucidity with whiplash momentum. She ordered the rest of her body to remain still despite the cold apprehension cascading through her limbs, backed by a violent heartbeat. One hand might have convulsed in defiance, but it was not enough to give her away in the darkness of the sticky summer pre-dawn. 

Remaining motionless on her bedroll, she took four deep breaths to calm herself. She held each for just a second on both the top of the inhale and bottom of the exhale, lungs full and then completely empty. Her heart slowed.

At least there were still some parts of her she was able to regulate. The list was dwindling by the day. 

She felt a damp spot by her cheek and gathered that she had been shedding tears in her sleep. She took another breath, rattling with anger this time, before gritting her teeth. Some ill emptiness had swallowed her up from the inside out, draining her of herself by guilt and weakness and _want_.

Mord-Sith did not dream. Mord-Sith did not have nightmares.

She was becoming something else. Something out of her control, something she did not know how to become. The sound of her given name, echoing in Shota’s pompous tone, rang through her head. Cara Mason, broken again, fragmented and scattered, now grasping at incongruous parts to cram into some functional new whole. But nothing fit. She was trapped in her own body. Every combination and movement felt ungainly, like her first time attempting to lace up her own leathers, like her tender uncalloused hands clumsily practicing using an Agiel on a stranger before she was even fully adult of body. 

Diligence in her duty was her impetus. Richard was dead. Her duty remained. _As long as the Mother Confessor’s pure heart beats_. Richard had entrusted her with the task of keeping it beating. So, she would. She had no other option.

The problem manifested in her steadily-growing and unruly concern for _whom_ Kahlan’s heart beat.

A chill (or shudder - she wasn’t sure) wracked her body despite the humidity hanging all over her.

Kahlan had reached into her like some petty thief and wrenched something out, both a lightening and a weighting weighting at the same time. Every look, every little smile, every word she shared was a surge of exhilaration that just left Cara thirsting for more and more. The death of a thousand little nibbles repeating itself through Kahlan’s proximity, chipping away at what she had been bit by bit. 

And now, caught in the awkward middle phase of whatever she was turning into, testing this space of who she was to Kahlan without Richard, all Cara felt was _ache_ and _need_.

 _Suffer in silence_ , Shota had said. That was her only rational way out. So, she would.

One thought screamed over the fuss in her head: could Kahlan see any of this? If she could, what was even in her head - pity, disgust, scorn? Or something else entirely?

Cara sighed into the night air, finally allowing herself to shift on her blanket. The crickets all around their campsite whined their lack of concern for her. Richard was dead. He was gone. He was not returning to deal with his selfish servant. 

But Cara still slowly moved one arm, reaching into her pack and grasping an Agiel. It was nothing but leather in her sweaty bare palm. Guilty relief and throbbing grief swirled together into something unlike either of them.

She turned onto her back and rested her fists on her forehead, letting her elbows flare out. Her leathers felt glued to her with perspiration, and she cursed the muggy air, the dream that had woken her, and all the rest. She tried to close her eyes again, but only ended up squinting into the purple small-hours sky. The stars were still visible. The sun wouldn’t be up for at least another two hours. But Cara was.

With another huffing sigh, she brought herself to her feet and sheathed her axe. She rubbed her neck to banish a cramp and then headed to relieve Kahlan of her watch early.

They had departed from Thorncairn at Shota’s prophetic behest two days ago, with just under a sennight of travel left between them and Aydindril if they kept up their current pace. 

So far, to their relief (and dark confusion), they had not seen a single rift.

They rode hard for as long as they could during the day, setting out before sunrise to get in a handful of good hours before the blazing sun became dangerous for their horses. After making camp and preparing supper, they slept in alternating shifts to keep watch - two and a half hours each, switching twice. Kahlan was on the final watch that evening, but Cara’s dream of Richard had woken her before the first hour of it passed.

Cara figured that Kahlan would appreciate an extra bit of rest.

As typical, Cara saw that their horses were taking turns at repose as well, one awake and vigilant as the other attained some short deep sleep on its side. Cara clicked her tongue. At least everyone else was getting decent rest. Kahlan was sleeping much better. Cara could survive the tiredness.

It was much too hot to keep their cooking fire going throughout the night, but keeping the embers alive gave a little light to supplement the moon’s. Kahlan, stirring them with a long branch to keep them active, glanced up as she heard Cara approach. The cinders relinquished a pop of spark and smoke as Kahlan gave her a small smile.

“I thought I heard you stirring. You hardly slept. Is everything alright?”

Cara’s brow knitted. The only way Kahlan would have heard her is if she had been struggling in her sleep during her dream. Cara bluffed.

“It’s already getting warm. All of the sweating woke me.”

Kahlan nodded in agreement, but added, “I’m sure the leather doesn’t help. You could change, you know?” The frosty look Cara gave her in reply was supposed to be menacing, but just made Kahlan chuckle. “Right. A very rare chance of that. I’m simply saying that it would give some relief.”

“I’ll take over the watch,” Cara told her more than offered, not giving any attention to the comment about her outfit. She took her place next to Kahlan on the side-turned log. “There’s still time before we plan to depart. Go close your eyes for a while. I’m fine here.”

Kahlan let out a soft sigh, absentmindedly running her hands over her bent knees. “That’s probably a good idea. Though in truth, I was enjoying the quiet time to think.”

And Cara couldn’t stand that she actually wanted to hear more. In a time before, she never would have asked.

“Think about what?”

Her question came out gawkily after a pause that seemed _almost_ too long, but Kahlan apparently did not notice or mind.

“Aydindril.” Her concise reply was another sigh, floating somewhere between nostalgic and troubled. She turned her eyes to the hissing embers, and Cara half-watched them reflect their heat in deep blue. “It’s odd to be going home. I expected everything to feel...more complete, before I did. I can’t help but think of my expectation of Richard escorting me there after the Keeper was defeated.” 

Cara licked her lips nervously in response to both Kahlan’s sad tone and the emptiness welling up in her own body.

“So much has changed. It feels like a lifetime has passed since I’ve been home, though I know we were really just there,” she continued. “I don’t remember it, Cara. Sometimes I get flashes of what might have happened, but anything I can cling to is hopelessly dim, like trying to make out shapes in the shards of a broken mirror. Like part of me was missing. I guess it was, really.”

And Cara knew all that she was referring to, both explicitly and implicitly. The half stemmed from Kahlan’s head and the half from her heart. She remembered the part-Kahlan all but dragging Richard bodily deeper into the woods for that not-so-subtle tryst. Again, that grief-relief flowed in as Kahlan reinforced her amnesia of it all.

“I don’t remember much either,” Cara commented in a dry attempt to relate. “I was distracted by the abundance of Kahlans.”

She noticed too late how it sounded when she said it, and her stomach flipped. Thank the spirits, Kahlan just cracked a playful half-smile, looking at Cara from the corner of her eye.

“Which Kahlan did you prefer?”

Cara would have never voiced her desire to get to know Kahlan’s authoritative half a bit more intimately than the simpering half she had traveled with. And besides, it was incorrect.

“Neither,” she exhaled after a long moment, letting go of a raw truth, feeling herself curl inside. Kahlan turned to look at her more fully, and their eyes connected in the muted glow before them. “Neither of them was really you.” 

Silence, outside of the chirping crickets’ reaction to what she had dared to say. Kahlan’s smile slowly expanded and Cara had to add something quick to counter herself. “And you’re difficult enough to look after as it is.”

Kahlan rolled her eyes, but the fond look persisted.

“It makes me feel better to hear that our last visit is fuzzy for you too,” Kahlan affirmed. “Had you ever been to the city before that, maybe as a child?”

“Not that I know of or remember.” She shrugged. “My only dealings with Aydindril were the many talks my sisters and I would have of conquering it.”

“Well, I’m grateful that never came to pass,” Kahlan remarked with a twitch of her eyebrows. “Though I do wonder if things are safe and secure there, and how the people have fared in all of this. I hope all is well. If it is, it would be nice to show you around, if you’d like, of course.” A small laugh, then. “That’s assuming I even get a spare moment for it. I’m sure the council has piled up a mountain for me to contend with after my absence. I sent for Dennee to help in the council’s affairs, but she’s not the Mother Confessor.”

Cara nodded. This, she understood. “It is your duty,” she reflected casually, matter-of-factly. 

“You’re correct. But I’m torn.” For a second time, Kahlan paused to laugh at Cara’s expression, a nonverbal groan of _not again_. “Don’t worry, I’m planning to stay all in one piece. What I meant is that I’m conflicted. For the last year, it’s been impossible not to base myself and my identity around being the Seeker’s Confessor - being Richard’s Confessor.” Her voice became quieter with the addition. She looked up, took in a deep breath, and pressed onward. “With Richard gone and the state of his quest in obscurity, Shota’s warnings feel much more daunting. An unavoidable end has finally caught up to me and I wasn’t expecting it so soon. It feels hollow. I feel…” She blinked, searching for the right word. “I feel unprepared, Cara. This is only my twenty-eighth summer. Acting as the Mother Confessor in passing moments while we were searching for the Stone of Tears was one thing. Permanently taking the Confessor’s Chair seems very different. I was raised a Confessor through and through, but I don’t know how to take on this role or meet these expectations.”

Cara prepared herself. She was going to say something reassuring. She had the words ready. Richard would approve. It was well within the boundaries of her promise to him. She shifted, turning her knees towards Kahlan, opening her body to the Confessor more fully. With a soft voice, Cara spoke.

“I think you’ll be perfectly adequate.”

Kahlan squinted for a second before breaking into genuine laughter, silencing the crickets for just a moment. She shook her head, holding her palm flat on her forehead in chagrin.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Cara.”

Cara frowned but tried again.

“I _meant_ -” And here, she stopped to gather better words. “- that you will be great for the people of the Midlands. I’ve seen how they respond to and respect you already. You didn’t choose the title, but you earned it and have it all the same. You’re the Mother Confessor. You are, so you simply will be.”

“I am, so I will be.” Kahlan contemplated Cara’s logic. “Hard to argue with. It also makes me think of the two of us.” She turned more fully towards Cara. Their knees were almost touching. Heat she couldn’t attribute to the summer night air crept up Cara’s neck. “For all that separates us, we’re both bound by a greater duty. The difference is, I think you’re much better at accepting and heeding yours than I am for mine.”

And Cara thought again of her own violations and transgressions, of how lovely Kahlan looked in the faint firelight. She thought, _you don’t even know the half_.

But she said: “Obviously.”

Kahlan grinned distractedly through the silence that fell in around them after that, idle hands taking up the task of churning the fire’s bones again. Cara looked away, over her opposite shoulder.

“Cara, where will you go after you’ve seen me there safely?”

Cara’s head snapped to glare at her so abruptly that it made her neck cramp again. This time, she did not rub it away.

“You think I’m _going_ somewhere?” she demanded, narrowed eyes burning into Kahlan’s now-confused face. “I’ve sworn to Richard to protect you. That won’t change when we pass into Aydindril. You won’t be ridding yourself of me so quickly.” No wonder how much Cara wished the silent suffering could end. “Start planning on where my quarters will be.”

Besides, where else would she go? To D’Hara? The entire place was likely drenched in chaos, with the clueless populace clamoring after having lost their collective bond to their leader. Cara wanted no part of that. Stowecroft could have been a possibility, but it was not the time. She needed to see this through.

Sitting alone with her that night, Cara couldn’t think of a place for herself than by Kahlan’s side - in one way or another.

Kahlan looked unfazed by Cara’s rankled outburst, still wearing a pleasant, even comforted, expression. She leaned in towards her, and it was like Cara felt the change in proximity before it happened. 

“That’s what I was hoping you would say. I’m not ready for us to part ways yet either. The Mother Confessor has no lack of protection at Aydindril, but I’ll feel better with you there. I think I’ll need to have some of my new home with me in my old home.” The word amplified itself in every crevice of Cara as Kahlan’s grateful gaze consumed her at her core. _Home_. That was what it was. 

Through these twisted and devastating circumstances, Kahlan had become her home, too.

Cara tried to speak but found that she could only nearly repeat herself. “I won’t be leaving you.”

“Thank you, Cara,” Kahlan hummed. “Richard would be so pleased with you. He always was.”

Cara looked down at the ground, wanting to believe her so much that for a moment it physically hurt, more than she had ever wanted anything else. 

(Almost anything.)

Kahlan was reaching for her, then, the way she would always move to touch Cara’s hand or shoulder or upper back, the sort of tender innocent touch that Cara had slowly grown used to. She held her breath for the gentle contact, but it never came. From the corner of her eye, Cara saw Kahlan’s hand jerk back in the subtlest way. A blurred rush of confusion and concern darted across Kahlan’s face, so brief that Cara would have missed it entirely if she had blinked. Thinking Cara hadn’t noticed the partly-offered hand in the first place, she pulled it back to meet the other in her lap, carefully folding them together.

“I think I’m going to lie down again after all. Thanks for taking the watch over,” Kahlan announced, voice wavering in the slightest way with something Cara couldn’t identify. She stood. “And thank you, for listening. I know it’s not your favorite thing to do.”

Cara just shrugged wordlessly. She hadn’t done much of anything at all.

Kahlan turned to leave, but stopped halfway into the motion. Facing Cara once again, she took a deep breath, and for a moment Cara thought she was going to address the revoked touch.

Instead, she said, “Will you wake me if you start to prepare any food? I’d like to help.”

Cara leered at her.

“I’ve been _getting_ better.”

“You have,” Kahlan reassured her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, impeded by that same quiet hesitancy from moments ago.

She walked away, then, to the spot where their bedrolls lay. Cara picked up the discarded branch and poked fiercely at the embers, trying to distract herself from feeling slighted by the withdrawn touch.

She had no claim to it, anyway.

* * *

They rode a few short hours later, just past first light, after feeding the horses and breaking their own fast on biscuits and cheese. Cara, holding Kahlan’s latest quip close, refused to prepare anything that required cooking. Upon waking, Kahlan had scoffed at the stubbornness but did not complain further.

When the sun was at its highest above them, it became utterly oppressive, beating down on them without mercy even through the canopy of trees above them. They had to slow the horses to a walk; the beasts were worked into a lather and both Kahlan and Cara were likewise soaked with perspiration. As it chanced, they found and followed a freshwater stream to a sylvan lake where they could water the horses and cool themselves off.

Cara waited outside of the tree line surrounding the lake with their belongings and the horses while Kahlan went to bathe. She found the most forgiving patch of shade she could and slumped down; her leathers were suffocating. Rivulets of sweat ran down her spine and between her breasts in such a way that they could have been trying to slowly erode her body lengthwise. She yanked off her gloves, flicking the incessant beads of moisture from her forehead, stopping every so often to guzzle from her waterskin. For a beat, she considered Kahlan’s advice of an outfit change, but quickly decided she must have been becoming screwy from the temperature.

It seemed like an eternity before she heard Kahlan returning from her soak to switch off. By the time she did, Cara had already begun to unlace her leathers, eager to remove them and disperse the heat of her core in the lake. She had also thoughtfully prepared an acerbic crack regarding Kahlan’s rather unhurried self-pampering, so she turned to fling it.

What Cara saw made her throat feel so thick that not even the cleverest remark could have escaped from it. Her breath hitched right along with it. She was glad she couldn’t see her own face.

Kahlan was approaching her, taking careful steps to avoid stepping on anything sharp with her bare feet. She carried both of her boots in one hand with her dress draped over the same arm, her body (barely) covered instead with a short linen robe, the same kind she had worn to Cara’s room at the inn just a few evenings before. Without conscious control of her legs, Cara stood to meet her, using one hand to hold the loosened seam of her leathers together. Kahlan gave her a placid smile, eyes twinkling in tandem, and Cara still had no idea what her own expression revealed. She ardently hoped it wasn’t apparent that the ambient heat was being overpowered by a more intense heat radiating from inside. She forced herself to keep her mouth closed; her more rebellious eyes swept from Kahlan’s own, to the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and on the exposed skin of her chest, constellated within the slight sunburn there, to the rest of her body.

Cara had seen Kahlan fully nude a handful of times in their seclusion, and they weren’t instances she would soon forget. But this in front of her now was in some way more alluring, as Kahlan was making no effort to hide her body aside from the scanty garment with which she had draped herself. Her smooth and shapely thighs, the curve of her rear _just_ hidden by the robe’s hem, the cinch at her narrow waist, the way her pert nipples, still responsive to the water’s chill, were straining visibly against the thin material, Keeper take her, Cara’s head was spinning.

Kahlan tousled at her damp hair with her free hand, playing with a tangle, and the motion made Cara swallow hard against the ever-intensifying ache between her legs. “It feels really nice,” Kahlan promised in a pleasant tone, and Cara agreed, though she thought not of the water but of how it would feel to tease one of Kahlan’s taut nipples with the pad of her thumb while licking the shimmering droplets from her exposed collarbone.

At a complete loss for verbal response, Cara curled her free hand into a fist and abruptly stalked off towards the lake.

She all but ripped her bodysuit off and kicked roughly out of her boots at the water’s edge. It was a relief to be naked, even more so to feel the heat dissipate from her skin as she gradually immersed herself in the invigorating water from toes to knees to hips to waist; the fierce throbbing brought on by Kahlan’s very being was much less affected. Cara clenched her jaw and submerged herself fully in the liquid coldness, taking in a gasp of air as she resurfaced. She shook her head vigorously in hopes of clearing it, sending drenched blonde hair flying from side to side. No use. She was still so encompassed by tendrils of arousal that she could feel herself twitching.

With a deep sigh, Cara dipped her hand below the water’s surface. For what felt like the thousandth time since she and Kahlan had separated from the others, she began to touch herself. Harmless, even laughably so, but still shrouded with a shame Cara couldn’t shake. It was her only method of release in the face of everything Kahlan did not realize she was doing to her. 

She began breathing more heavily as she felt her own slickness on her fingers even in the water. It was completely ridiculous, Kahlan’s manner of reducing her to this desperately eager ball of carnal energy. She would have to be done with this quickly. With the accidental groan that spilled from her mouth as her middle finger slipped over the swollen center of her arousal, she knew that wouldn’t be an issue.

She went on with it, then, calling on the fantasy of Kahlan’s damp bare skin pressed tight to hers, trying to hold the image of Richard lifting the Sword of Truth above her head far away.

When she was finished (though not completely satisfied - she never was in these moments), Cara stepped out of the lake and picked up her attire. Knowing better than to force her soaked skin into her leathers, she started back for the horses in the nude. It was nothing she hadn’t done before.

Cara counted herself incredibly fortunate to see that Kahlan, in contrast, was fully clothed by the time she returned, sitting in the shade chewing on an apple. She blinked once at Cara’s stark nudity, but quickly recovered.

“You look refreshed,” she commented nonchalantly before taking another bite of fruit, and Cara couldn’t help but cringe.

The sun had already drunk up most of the moisture from her skin, so Cara unfurled her leathers in preparation to dress herself. She couldn’t help but notice Kahlan looking at her, furtively, almost reluctantly. She ignored it until Kahlan broke the laden silence all at once, as if she hadn’t meant to, but did, so she had to keep speaking.

“Your muscles are coming back.”

Cara stepped into one leg of her suit, raising an eyebrow at the statement. She could say the same likewise. “It’s amazing what a few good meals can do for a body.” She avoided the Confessor’s eyes and wished Kahlan would turn away, but also never wanted her to stop looking. It was disarming.

“Your hair is getting long, too,” Kahlan added. “You could wear a proper braid now, if you wanted.”

And Kahlan was not incorrect. Cara could feel its wet tips tickling at the bottom of her shoulder blades after half a year's growth. But she could also feel the rough hacking of Triana’s knife, the gnawing disgrace and humiliation of losing her true braid.

She knew with certainty that she did not deserve to wear one now. 

So she said nothing, avoiding the expectation to respond beyond a grunt by focusing on dressing instead.

But as she did, she was distantly aware of Kahlan’s lingering gaze teasing at the groove of muscle running from her hip bone to her groin, flitting to her breasts, and then to her shoulders as Cara covered herself more fully. As she began working on the laces at her ribs, Cara stole a sidelong look at Kahlan; the Confessor was still too preoccupied to notice, eyes half-absent with something Cara hadn’t seen in the before and couldn’t distinguish from the other million things she didn’t understand about Kahlan. The apple hovered in front of her lips, having apparently been forgotten in her hand on the way there.

Cara pulled the final knot tight and spoke sharply, snapping Kahlan out of it. 

“We need to get moving again.” 

* * *

They were scouting out a place to make camp for the night when it happened.

The sun was slung low in the amber sky, hinting at disappearing at the horizon line soon. The muted evening heat had been easier to travel by, but it was coming upon the time to be done for the day. In agreement, they guided the horses into the deeper swath of trees adjacent to the path for better cover. Cara rocked easily in her saddle, leaning over and pulling a piece of salt pork from her satchel to tide her over until they could get a fire going for supper. She ripped some off with her teeth and was about to offer some to Kahlan when she felt her hackles rise and the pit of her stomach drop at some lurking disturbance.

Kahlan’s horse sensed it in the same instant as Cara but reacted much more dramatically: by rearing _hard_ without warning, stymieing even Kahlan’s refined riding skills and throwing her right from the saddle. Her surprised cry became one of acute pain as she hit the ground with buckling force. 

Cara leapt into action without a second’s hesitation, controlling her horse with a hard yank on the reins at the same time as she efficiently removed her boots from the stirrups. Her axe was already out of its belt holster and ready to strike when her feet hit the ground. Through the surging adrenaline, she spotted a hooded figure reaching for Kahlan’s still-spooked horse’s bridle. Two quick steps, all spit and fire, and the weapon’s head was buried in the assailant’s ribs, heralded by a sickening _crunch_. She pulled it back as the body crumpled into a heavy pile on the ground, covered by the cloak.

Another cry, then, this one of pure alarm and not belonging to Kahlan. Cara whirled around in time to find herself being charged by a second aggressor. She only had enough distance to see that it was a man of Kahlan’s height before she had to give him a forceful thrusting kick in the hip to knock him away. She followed his backward momentum and gave him another rough jab, sprawling him supine on the ground. 

Kahlan had not reappeared yet; Cara knew without a doubt that she was injured. Righteous rage, razor-sharp and unsparing, stormed up inside of her - for the first time in a long time, Cara felt like herself. She pressed her boot firmly into the struggling invader’s chest and raised her weapon to end it.

“Cara, _wait_!” 

Kahlan’s strained voice broke through wild-eyed craze. Before she could make the final blow, she turned to see Kahlan coming up behind her, panting in pain but determined to reach her. Her left arm was pulled across her midsection where she held the material of her dress at the opposite side - her shoulder of the same side was visibly dislocated from its socket, and she was using her grip to keep the lame arm in close. She pointed emphatically with her unaffected side and commanded, “Look at him.”

Cara tore her eyes from Kahlan’s injury to look down at the body under her boot for the first time. Empty coldness flooded her as she saw his eyes - deep hazel, petrified in unequivocal terror, and young. _So_ young.

His eyes were the color of Richard’s.

Kahlan sank to her knees next to the young man, pushing Cara’s foot out of the way. He gasped and went to scramble to his feet, but Kahlan’s right hand was around his throat before he could finish the motion. Cara pursed her lips and fell back.

“Do you know what a Confessor does?” Kahlan demanded in a stern voice, staring at him with a calm but stony glare, letting him feel her grip. It was more of a rhetorical question than anything - any person in the Midlands did, and wouldn’t risk bringing it upon themselves even if they were unsure if the person at their throat was truly a Confessor or not. Tears were spilling from the adolescent’s eyes, creating tracks on his dirty face. He bit his lip against them and nodded briskly.

“So you know to answer me truthfully, or I _will_ confess you.”

Another fervent nod.

“Are you a baneling?”

“No, ma’am,” he spluttered, tossing his head in the negative. “My brother. Is he-”

“You’ll answer my questions first,” Kahlan interrupted. “Are you a bounty hunter?”

“No, ma’am.” His voice was trembling.

“Did you mean to specifically harm us, or did someone else send you to specifically harm us?”

“No!” he exclaimed, pushing himself up further onto his hands. “I promise. We were just thieving. Those banelings, ransacked our village months ago. Killed our parents. We’ve been on our own since, getting as far away from there as possible. We just steal what we can, when we can, and we were hungry.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Kahlan tossed to Cara over her shoulder, wincing as the motion aggravated her separated shoulder. “I’m going to let go of you now. Do not run.”

“I won’t, I swear it.” 

Kahlan released him and he shot to his feet, pulling his hood down to reveal matted dark locks with one hand while the other clutched at his throat.

“How old are you?” Kahlan asked, rising along with him.

“Fifteen, ma’am, I’m sorry.” The trailing apology was a frantic, automatic addition. His panic-stricken eyes moved about the area, widening severely when he saw his brother’s crooked body on the ground by Kahlan’s horse. “Amery!” he cried, tripping over himself to get to his side. Snivelling, he rolled the other boy onto his back and was greeted by vacant, unseeing eyes. He collapsed on top of him, tugging at his cloak. Cara swallowed hard when she realized they were mirrors of one another - twins. “He’s dead. He’s dead!”

Kahlan shot an urgent glance at Cara. “Can you give him the Breath of Life?”

She crouched next to the boy’s body on the opposite side of his grieving brother, feeling his skin and inspecting his wound. “I can try. His ribs are broken, and his lung is punctured.” Cara leaned close to the boy’s face. His cheeks were still ruddy and warm from exertion. Filling her own lungs, Cara reached deep inside and called upon what she had learned during her breaking; she summoned the final breaths of her countless victims, separating one out and retrieving it to transfer to the dead boy before her. She breathed gently into his parted lips, and the life force moved between them.

Amery’s eyes filled with his spirit again, and he drew in a choking breath. The other stared at his resurrected twin, shocked numb, unable to speak.

“Remove your cloak,” Cara commanded. She had to snap her fingers at him and repeat herself before he could respond. When he did, she wrenched it from his grip and wound it thrice around the other twin’s ribs, heaving it tight and wrapping it closed. “This will block the hole in his chest until his lung comes back. He will survive, but it will be painful. You have to leave here, now. I suggest you move him carefully.”

The boy whose name they did not know, pale-faced and clammy from all he had seen in the last few short minutes, rose on quaking legs, dragging his groaning brother to his feet as well. Shouldering the burdensome body, he made the first turn to escape from these dangerous women they had made the mistake of trying to rob.

“Wait,” Kahlan bid him, pulling a parcel of rations from her saddlebag, still supporting her injured arm, and pushed it into his chest. “Take this. Go straight to the nearest village and find a healer for your brother. And both of you, find honest work. Tell any proprietor or foreman that the matter of your employment is a command of the Mother Confessor. Do _not_ steal again.” She gave him a pointed look. He nodded, pale as a sheet, not daring to question anything as he seemed sure that this was all a horrible dream.

They fled, then, disappearing into the forest more slowly than any of the four involved probably would have wanted. As soon as the young men were out of sight, Cara addressed Kahlan with directive haste **.**

“We need to get your shoulder back into place.”

She had Kahlan sit. The pain of it was starting to catch up to her, and she whimpered out loud as the muscle and tissue around the wrenched joint spasmed. Cara dropped to a knee next to her, shushing her in the closest way to _gentle_ that she could muster. “Relax your arm.” Kahlan did as she was told, flinching as she dropped her grip on her dress’s corset. Cara caught the limp-armed wrist and guided it to the correct side of Kahlan’s body, keeping her elbow tucked against her waist. Kahlan hissed through her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. Cara held her upper arm to support it. “Deep breath.”

Cara hardly gave Kahlan the chance to take one before she rotated her arm to the outside without preamble, not relenting as Kahlan yelped and jerked. Cara felt the shoulder slip back into place with a muted _thunk_. After palpating the joint to confirm, she eased back to her haunches, satisfied with her quick work.

They sat there in silence for a moment, allowing the dazed fuss to evaporate from their bodies into the expanding twilight. Cara noticed with conciliation that their horses had not bolted. 

Kahlan, finally in control of her breathing, tested her cradled arm, moving it in small circles; she cringed as the reluctant sore muscles worked. “Is it alright?” Cara asked, watching her gingerly touch the inflamed area. “It would be best to wear a sling for a few days. I’m sure we can fashion one up.”

“It’s painful. But I’ll live,” Kahlan said with a slight grimace. She paused, then, tilting her chin up towards the purpling sky. Her eyes became troubled as she steeled herself to speak. She addressed Cara without looking at her. “Cara, I don’t know how necessary that was.”

“Resetting your shoulder?” Cara squinted as Kahlan at last looked at her. “I’m sure it felt unpleasant but it needed to be done. You could have risked permanent damage otherwise. Trust me. I’ve seen it.”

“No, not my arm,” Kahlan said with simple directness. “You didn’t need to attack them so fiercely. They were harmless.”

Cara scoffed and waved her hand dismissively, rising to full height. “How was I supposed to know that? They encroached on us and I acted. I learned not to hesitate long ago.”

“You _killed_ a child, Cara!” Kahlan retorted, voice edged with sudden unchecked exasperation. She stood, too, and closed the gap between her body and Cara’s with one pressing step. Cara found herself unconsciously moving backward. Kahlan’s eyes were like daggers, boring straight into her, and Cara found herself reflecting the aggravation in defense. He was hardly a child - and she had done it to fulfill her one obligation.

“I did _exactly_ what was commanded and expected of me.” Each word was a low, painstaking growl punctuated with a determined glare as she moved towards Kahlan. It had been a mistake. But better a mistake than a failure. “It’s my duty to protect you. To keep you safe. That’s what I did. I won’t apologize for what happened here, if that’s what you want.”

Kahlan groaned at the typical response as Cara squared up to her. “I know, Cara. I know. I’m not looking for an apology - I recognize that would be futile. But _you_ need to recognize that there’s vast space between prudence and hesitation. I’m not convinced that you do.”

“You’re truly angry with me for this?” Cara asked in a rasping, brittle tone, mouth falling open and face tight with heated incredulity. Her pulse had begun to race. Hot pinpricks scattered all across her neck and cheeks and she found herself trying to rub them away.

Kahlan cast her eyes downward, palming her forehead and huffing out through her nose. “I’m not angry,” she explained with a note of curt stiffness. “I’m frustrated. I’m trying to comprehend how you don’t see-”

“What do you want me to say?” Cara all but spat, wild-eyed, as the venom churning inside of her infiltrated her voice. She instantly regretted her audacity to yell at Kahlan, but Kahlan took in the harsh exclamation and didn’t lose a beat.

“I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to understand.”

And though Cara thought she understood so very little, in that moment, under Kahlan’s scrutiny, she realized that she _did_ understand plenty. 

She understood the white static dismay that had engulfed her when Kahlan’s horse threw her. She understood the way her preoccupation with the Mother Confessor had been driving her to distraction for months. She understood how she hung on Kahlan’s every word despite her private self-reprimands, how every one of Kahlan’s movements and smiles made her feel sick in the most addicting way. She understood the touches changing her.

She understood that Kahlan could root these inconceivably tiny fragments of worth out of her and display them in a way she could comprehend.

She understood that she would never have Kahlan the way she wanted to have her. 

There was so much Kahlan did not realize that Cara understood.

Cara couldn’t stop her hands from shaking in contrast to the stillness all around them, even when she balled them into straining fists. Kahlan’s fixed look on her, waiting impatiently for a reply, was too much. Her own eyes burned as she fought against the singular thought thrashing in her head, threatening to travel as breath to her lungs and form into words she would say out loud. Care. Affection. Attachment, attraction. Fear. Devotion. Dread, guilt. Concern. Caught in the middle, learning what all of these meant. Struggling to see past all she had learned before. The transformation of duty into so much more, so far beyond what Kahlan knew. _Love_. The word materialized in her mind, in the fluttering in her chest, in the hitch in her breath. It leveled her. Absurd weakness unbefitting of her existence. Infuriating. Shameful but blissful enough to cast her into oblivion.

She needed Kahlan to know. Her heart howled for it. But Kahlan would never know. She needed to never say it, no matter what. She would not be responsible for the wreckage.

The dizzy whirlwind in her head made her come completely undone - she shouted the words, hoarse and bunched up, sending them flying into realness with reckless abandon. They exploded into the summer dusk with disobedient, honest impenitence. 

“I can’t lose you the way you lost Richard!”

Kahlan froze, mouth askew. Cara couldn’t have possibly taken waiting for a response. She tore away from their toe-to-toe, stomping in the opposite direction. She snatched a twig from the underbrush, snapped it in half between her hands, and hurled the broken pieces at the ground. She was all ragged breath and blinked-away tears. An undoing. All her fault.

She stood there, seething, eyes closed, vibrating with all she usually felt and loathed to feel, for what felt like centuries. Maybe it was her eternal punishment.

Gentle contact anchored her back to where she was. Kahlan’s hand on her shoulder from behind pulled her from the storm. She should have shrugged away but instead arched back into it, greedy, wanting, needing to know if Kahlan could see. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, sounding so genuine and remorseful that it made Cara’s chest heave. “I'm sorry, Cara. All of this has me on edge. You deserve better than my scolding. You deserve so much, Cara.”

Cara shrunk in on herself. She was getting exactly what she deserved. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“And you misspoke.”

“What are you talking about?” Cara sniffed, furrowing her brow, wiping at a frustrated tear with her palm and hiding it from Kahlan.

“You misspoke,” Kahlan breathed, and there was that masked hiccup in her voice again. “You said, you can’t lose me the way _I_ lost Richard.” She pointed at herself to emphasize Cara’s declaration, brow raised, with a thoughtful frown. “You meant, you can’t lose me the way _you_ lost Richard.” Her voice dropped into a barely-there whisper. “Right?”

Their gazes locked: steady, raw, open. Kahlan’s eyes shined with an uncertainty Cara had never seen in them before. It both crushed her heart and made it whole. 

Kahlan’s hand slipped down to hold Cara’s in a loose grasp. This time, she did not withdraw. Neither did Cara - she wanted to collapse into nothingness right there with her, to be overcome, consumed completely. 

Kahlan was waiting for a reply.

But with one calm syllable, spoken coolly despite the warmth flooding inside of her and creeping into all of her shadowed corners, Cara looked down and lied.

“Right.”


	5. Peace in Your Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two opening notes because I am nothing if not consistent. First, the friendliest possible reminder that, in this series, nothing canon past _Vengeance_ has technically transpired yet. I find myself personally forgetting this as I incorporate material! So be aware as I adulterate _Extinction_ to meet my own ends here, heh.
> 
> Second, in the dorkiest move ever, I wanted to share a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6YsyUiWu35n9C4FJHjtSv5?si=B16lETf_TBmGGpH5epeRpw) I've put together for this series while procrastinating from writing it. Sharing music with others makes me happy, so, yeah, that's it. This particular chapter was fueled by a continuous stream of Marshmello's "Silence," which has probably permanently skewed my Spotify stats, but s'cool.
> 
> On with it!

They _almost_ made it to Aydindril without any digressions.

Richard’s absence evidently did not mean an end to the detours on the winding road towards their loftier pursuits. 

Their pace of travel had already been curbed - Kahlan was unable to ride as hard as before with one arm hanging in a sling. Aside from her balance and control of the reins, the repetitive jostling itself caused it to smart, even when she tried riding double with Cara. This was by some means both irksome and fortunate. Sharing a horse would have mitigated Kahlan’s inability to keep up on the reins and allowed them to maintain their tempo. But, Kahlan’s good arm wrapped around her waist and her body pressing into Cara’s back again and again with every beat of the horse’s gait was a good way to almost guarantee that Cara would steer them all directly into a ravine. Kahlan, too, seemed ill at ease about the doubling - her hand never relaxed from a tight fist against Cara’s stomach, and Cara noticed before very long that she was holding her breath entirely as they rode together. It was hard to not be made sore by her rigidity, physically or farther inside.

So, instead of enduring the mutual unvoiced discomfort, they slowed from a gallop to a posting trot, each very much on her own horse. The adjustment solved the immediate dilemma but tacked any number of days onto the back end of their voyage. Cara tried not to be disgruntled by the impediment but was losing the battle; their arrival at Aydindril’s gates already could not have come soon enough. A heady kind of tension, thick as the air’s summer humidity, had developed between them and had been hovering there since the near-robbery two evenings prior. Not unpleasant or acrid, mostly just nebulous and opaque, silent with all of the heavy things left unsaid, bottled up and crushing against the barriers. It made Cara’s skin crawl, most of the time. At least when they reached their destination there would be some outlet or distractions to diffuse the friction. For the moment, though, it was just the two of them and all of the fragile phantoms of uncertainty.

It was backbreaking to sit with. Cara would rather have fought every baneling currently in existence than squirm like this.

(Not that they had encountered any, still, even a single one. In their persistent silence, neither addressed this second font of unease.)

They were making headway through the forest near Galomar when Kahlan gave her reins a smooth but sure pull. Her horse came to a prompt halt. Cara did the same when she noticed the halting a few paces later and turned to address the standstill.

“Everything alright?”

Kahlan shushed her, ignoring the direct question in favor of scrutinizing the area with carefully-narrowed eyes. “Do you hear that?” 

Cara shook her head. “I _was_ hearing hooves,” she replied, raising a single eyebrow at Kahlan’s intent searching for something or other. “If we want to make it to Aydindril before we perish of old age, I should still be hearing them.” Her horse pawed the ground in solidarity with its rider’s impatience.

Again and unsurprisingly, Kahlan paid her no heed and dismounted from the saddle with as much one-armed grace as she could gather. She distractedly patted her horse’s neck as she continued to survey the flora around them, looking bothered when she presumably did not spot what she was looking for. Cara was about to make another remark when Kahlan took in a soft breath before humming out a lilting, wordless aria. It caught Cara in the hazy space between bafflement and pure maddening enchantment.

And then, at the conclusion of Kahlan’s gentle melody, Cara did hear it. A high-pitched warble, weak but desperate, arose from the verdant crowding to the right of their path. Kahlan’s eyes flashed with relieved urgency as she also pinpointed its source. Freeing her left arm from its sling with care, she approached the cooing lily plant and gingerly rooted through its leaves until she found it. Cara watched in silence as Kahlan pulled her hands from the fronds, cradling a tiny pocket of blue glow. 

“Hello there,” she crooned to the night wisp cupped in her palms. “I’m glad you called out to me.” Her voice was so tender and sweet, reflecting the smile that was now spreading across her face, that it made Cara ache. “Where is your family? Did you get separated from them here?”

More whirring and clicking noises rang out from Kahlan’s hands; they were inarticulate to Cara’s ears, but Kahlan understood something within them, because she nodded resolutely at the infinitesimal creature.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. But we’re here to help now. We’ll see you there safely.”

“We’ll be doing _what_ , now?” Cara questioned, sounding nothing short of stilted to her own ears as she tried to match Kahlan’s kindly tone. She dismounted and approached Kahlan, looking first at the night wisp and then sharply at the Confessor. 

“Cara, this is Tael.” Cara had absolutely no idea how Kahlan gleaned a _name_ from the wisp, but was not going to question minutiae at this point. “She was on a nativity pilgrimage with her kin, but was injured and separated from her group. She’s one of the wisps with child. She needs our help to reach the birthing grounds.”

“And where might those be?”

“Night wisps only give birth in the protected grottoes of certain watercourses around the Midlands,” Kahlan explained. “Her clan was headed to the Falls of Aldermont. If we don’t take her there, she and her babies will die.”

Mostly for her own sanity, Cara chose to block out the legendary implications of the location and focused her protest on the distance instead. “That’s leagues upon leagues from here,” she hissed, struggling against patience. “I thought we were in a hurry for Aydindril.” The way Kahlan pursed her lips, then, made Cara realize that there was going to be no debate on their next step before she even finished her statement.

“This is very important to me, Cara,” she said with quite remonstrance and a brief pop of steel in her gaze. “The night wisps are critical allies to the line of Confessors. As the Mother Confessor, I could not in good conscience pass her by without helping. Not to mention the fact that the night wisp is the most vital link in the chain of life - I have a feeling this has implications for whatever is coming for us.” Kahlan softened, then. “And besides. If we aren’t willing to help the most fragile beings in creation, what are we even trying to achieve anyway?”

Cara clenched her jaw through the reactionary wave of disgruntlement and made herself reach deeper. When she did, the question she had been asking herself more than she had acknowledged cropped up there in the depths.

What would Richard do?

The answer came with much less effort than the question. Straightforward, undoubtable. Richard would help the night wisp. 

So would she.

Cara replied with buried reluctance, baring her teeth more than smiling at Kahlan and their new companion. “Alright. But we need to be quick about it. That means we ride through the night.”

Kahlan gave a brisk nod of agreement, obviously quite thrilled. She beamed down at the night wisp, and then at Cara.

It managed to turn Cara’s smile realer by at least one degree.

* * *

The flyspeck little being would _not_ shut up.

In all fairness, neither would Kahlan.

“I know how lonely and lost you must have felt alone back there,” Kahlan was saying as Cara faded back into awareness of the continuous conversation of the last few hours. She could still only hear one side. Kahlan had chosen to forego the sling so she could cradle the wisp in her left hand while holding the reins with her right. Her tone was empathetic, plaintive. “I’ve felt grievous loss, too. Especially lately. My sister and I are the last of our kind. We also lost the Seeker of Truth, Richard, in the war against the Keeper.” 

The glow protected in her hand cooed sorrowfully, but Kahlan retained her subtle smile. 

“I appreciate your condolences. It’s been difficult to bear, but we owe it to him to see all of this through to the end. And right now, that includes reuniting you with your family and making sure you can deliver your babies safe and sound. Are you excited to be a mother?”

More chirping in response. Cara, her horse a few paces ahead on the trail, felt almost out of line for listening in, like she was disturbing some hallowed moment. Her fists clenched around the reins. “I’m happy that you’re excited. And of course I’ll answer your question. I always thought I’d love to have a baby,” Kahlan sighed, looking up at the afternoon sky through the treetops over their heads. “But, for me, it’s complicated. Even more so now. Richard was my heart, and thinking about a future with a family now is not something I’m of mind to do. Beyond that, it’s...different, for Confessors. We take strong, noble, and brave mates, but not for love. To continue our line. When we make them our mates, our magic destroys them.”

Tael let out a particularly emphatic trill and Kahlan giggled. “Well, when you put it like that, I guess it would be easier to be a night wisp.”

At that point, Cara was bunched so tightly she could have launched herself from her saddle by sheer mental force alone. The private conversation between Kahlan and the wisp had grown exhausting - just another mark in the long list of things she was actively failing to comprehend. It was trivial and inconsequential and seemed a petty breaking point, but with a stab of stinging bitterness through her middle, she broke all the same.

“Can you please _stop_ that incessant babbling?” She spat the words out with more acid than she truly intended, tossing a compulsive glare halfway over her shoulder. She faced front again as the expected guilt for her eruption set in. She heard Kahlan’s horse pick up its pace to ride alongside her, and Cara instantly regretted opening her mouth in the first place. She went to advise Kahlan to be mindful of her shoulder and (maybe) apologize, but Kahlan flanked her and began speaking before she could.

“Night wisps are the most fragile beings the Creator has ever made,” Kahlan repeated, not in outright scolding, but with unmistakable austerity in her voice and eyes. They burned into Cara’s partly-averted gaze as she went on. “Without constant companionship, they _will_ perish.” With a lingering, pointed look, she urged her horse a few paces in front of Cara’s, taking the lead.

“So, if you give me one moment of peace, the creature is going to die?” Cara called at Kahlan’s back, quickening to stay abreast with her. 

Kahlan lowered her voice to a grim murmur and brought the wisp in her hand safe to her chest. “She might.” Cara let a small roll of her eyes slip at the perceived dramatics, but quickly caught herself as Kahlan frowned at her. “I don’t even know if my talking to her is going to be enough. She’s so delicate.” Her voice wavered; her tone dissolved from vehemence to a tremulous apprehension, reflecting all of the sadness Cara knew had been simmering under the surface of her bones. “Not only is she with young, but she’s badly hurt and was lost from her entire family.” She sent a tearful glance down at the hand pressed just above her heartbeat, and if Cara didn’t feel guilty before, she surely did now. “She’d be a lot stronger if she had them to accompany her to the birthing ground. But she has us. She needs us.”

And with a stirring inside, Cara surprised herself with a flurry of razored cognizance; it made her give the reins an accidental halting tug. Kahlan’s horse trotted on. 

Kahlan’s steadfast compassion fueled her commitment to the night wisp’s safety. This much was true and apparent. But concealed in the deepest part of her gaze, past some veil of profundity through which she could only take a fleeting glimpse, Cara saw more of the center. This was an act of agency, of conciliation. This empathy was another step through the rayless mourning into the flow of what lay beyond it. 

As all of this revealed itself to Cara through Kahlan’s eyes, she had to wonder if this was what it felt like for a Confessor to read someone. To see the underlying current of an action, a word, a glance. 

She wondered if Kahlan was revealing it on purpose, illuminating the meaning, wanting it to be seen and shared.

She wondered another thing, too.

“How do you even know what she’s saying?”

The question was spoken low, spoken flatly to protect it from the slight sting of some pitiful desire for inclusion lurking behind it.

Kahlan met her again, slowly, this time with a small but penetrating smile in place of the shadowed worry. It was a smile meant for Cara, pushing at newly-freckled cheeks, and it was exhilarating.

“It’s a magical language,” Kahlan answered simply, allowing her to catch up. “If you listen closely, eventually you’ll understand it. You take in what you give away, Cara.”

Tael contributed another twinkling sound to the silence that fell between them. Kahlan’s smile remained as she rendered her attention back to the wisp. Cara, with quiet resignation, rode on next to them.

* * *

As night settled across the forest, a chorus of crickets chirping joined in with Tael’s warbling. Her noises had become more and more fretful-sounding as the light had changed with the sunset, and now were frightened enough to make Kahlan signal for them to stop.

“What is it?” Cara grunted, envisioning her compromise of traveling through the night going up in smoke. 

“We’ve crossed into gar territory,” Kahlan breathed without looking at her, scanning the moon-cloudy sky. “Have your weapon ready.”

As they urged their horses on silently, Cara fingered the hoster of her axe.

“Why do gars bother to feed on something so small?” Seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

“They absorb the night wisps’ Han. It allows them to hunt in the dark.” Kahlan finally allowed her vigilant gaze to fall on Cara, face written all over with clear seriousness. “I think we need to adjust our plan.”

“How?” Cara asked, narrowing her eyes. “We can’t stop here. It would be a dinner party invitation to half the gars in this region.”

“Not to stop,” Kahlan clarified, nearly rolling her own eyes at Cara’s comment. “I think we need to split up.” Cara immediately opened her mouth with a harsh objection, but Kahlan held her finger up, stealing the wind from her with more ease than Cara would ever disclose. “You should take Tael on foot, to get her away from here unharmed. You’re so much faster than me, especially with my arm. Do your legs feel fresh enough to run?”

It was a stupid question that Cara didn’t want to distinguish by answering. Kahlan gave an understanding nod.

“Good. Then you’ll take her. I’ll take the horses in tandem and catch up with you.”

Cara shook her head vigorously to both disagree and to clear it, feeling her handle on the situation slip quickly through her fingers. “What about the _gars_ , Kahlan?” she seethed, glaring not exactly at Kahlan, but in a sort. “What happens when they come after you?”

Kahlan let out a little scoff of her own. “Gars hunt alone. I’ve dealt with plenty of them before. I have a sore shoulder, not a missing limb, Cara. I’m perfectly capable of wielding my sword if I need to.” She gave a quick backward toss of her head at the bastard sword strapped to her back. “I’m also not convinced they’ll pay me much mind if I don’t have what they’re after. The gars must know the wisps are migrating through. I’d much rather have the two of you safe from harm.”

 _This is very important to me, Cara_ , she had said. Cara felt an indistinct crumbling somewhere inside, knocked over by the push and shove of her options of reaction. She wanted to please Kahlan. She wanted to please Richard. She needed a way to do both. Richard the Seeker would have known how to do both. She made a pull to emulate it in spite of her disposition.

As she hopped out of the saddle and shouldered her pack, it felt like her body was out of her own control, like a puppet on strings. She began to tether her horse to Kahlan’s and tried to bury the searing conflict in her head. 

“Cara is going to take you now,” Kahlan was telling Tael in a hushed tone. “She’ll keep you very safe. She’s done the same for me for a long time now.”

Cara’s hand slipped off of the rope, causing her to lose the knot. She cursed under her breath and started over again.

She wasn’t sure what sensation she was expecting when Kahlan gently transferred the wisp into her waiting hands. There was no weight to the luminous speck even as she nestled into her gloved palm, like a snowflake that would soon melt or a piece of ash that would smudge away with the slightest brushing. When the wisp began to chirp, she felt a faint vibration there, just a miniscule thrumming in her palm.

There was also a surge of dread that came with it - what if she was not delicate enough to get the wisp to the Falls of Aldermont without further harm?

“How will I know if I’m in the right place?” she asked Kahlan, channeling the abrupt anxiety into an answerable question. Kahlan smirked enigmatically in return.

“You’ll know.”

It wasn’t helpful. Cara grimaced.

“Thank you, Cara. I have faith in you. I’ll meet up with you at the grotto,” Kahlan promised. 

“You had better,” Cara grumbled. “And if there’s even one scratch from a solitary gar on you, you can expect to hear about it every day for the rest of your time in this world. And in the world after, if I can help it.”

Kahlan just smiled a knowing smile, anticipating nothing less.

* * *

Cara’s legs burned as she pushed onward through the thick woodlands, darting from shrubbery to shrubbery for cover, keeping a wary eye on the inky darkness overhead. So far she had avoided any hungry gars; nothing had given them chase. But she was unsure how long that would last, as the creature she held was still just twittering away with abandon. Cara stopped briefly to catch her breath, crouched by an overgrown fern, and addressed the tiny ruckus.

“I can’t understand a single thing you’re saying,” she told the wisp yet again through her panting, trying with all her might to keep her voice mild and diffuse, as Kahlan’s had been when speaking to Tael. 

Tael, as was foreseeable, whistled unintelligibly in return. Cara deadpanned.

“I’m sorry Kahlan’s not here to talk to you,” she continued, rising and starting forward again with deliberate stealth. “But you’re stuck with me, and I need to get you through here safely. So can you please _stop_ serenading every creature in the forest?” She noticed the roughness in her intonation, so she withdrew and smoothed it. “Respectfully and... _kindly_ , requested.” 

The cooing quieted.

 _Finally_ , Cara thought before loping back into a proper run.

* * *

The fresh water from the babbling stream was a mercy as she splashed it over her flushed face, cooling her down after hours of hard-paced progress. The ardor had been successful. The sun was up, and she and Tael were well out of the gars’ hunting grounds. The tree canopy had opened up in this area for early-morning sun. It was warm, but not unbearable. Cara filled her waterskin once more - she had finished off most of her first fill in the few moments they had sat there and rested. She realized she was unsure if she should offer some water to Tael, but the little thing didn’t seem to be making a fuss, so she figured all was fine.

Slinging the waterskin’s strap over her shoulder, Cara carefully scooped the night wisp up from her momentary perch on a fallen leaf, earning herself a quick _whoop_. Surprise, anger, gratefulness, Cara had no idea. She had been listening to the creature’s noises for hours upon hours now and was still in the dark. 

Maybe understanding was something she couldn’t hope for. The thought gave her a harsh pang in her middle. 

Regardless, she thought of Kahlan’s warning of Tael’s fragility and spoke on anyway.

“Well, Tael, it’s just you and me,” she exhaled. “And we have a _long_ way to go, so…” Her voice trailed off as she glanced around, trying to bring forth any topic, anything to narrate or comment on, but coming up empty. Another deep sigh. This was not going well. “What do you want to talk about, huh?” She raised her brow at the glowing orb closed in her relaxed fist, already knowing the response to come.

Right again: trilling and warbling. 

“Hmm.” Cara sucked her teeth and rose to full height. “This would be so much easier if you used words instead of chirping.”

No words came. Cara stepped over the rock-edged rivulet, sure-footed, and continued their heading. 

“I’ll bet you wish Kahlan was here instead of me. I’m not as soft as she is, or as endearing. I know. But I’m all you’ve got, and I promised her that you would be able to safely deliver your babies. So bear with me. I’m trying.”

The tail end of it came through a clenched jaw. Cara took a deep breath to recenter herself, but couldn’t get work past that resentful twinge. Why was this so difficult to bear without hostility? Kahlan would have been disappointed, if she was there, Cara knew. The fact rammed her with disdain. Playing at these deceptions of gentleness was tiring, as was the awkward hesitance behind wanting to be heard and understood.

She had to keep talking, though. She couldn’t let the thing perish. What would she even dream of saying to Kahlan then?

“The truth is, you’re lucky I’m here.” She was skirting the thin line between teasing and genuine rancor; she had to keep herself in check. As she walked, she looked down at the blue light escaping from the spaces between her fingers. It really was pretty. The same color as Kahlan’s eyes. A much clearer blue than her own. “Kahlan couldn’t have run all night and gotten you out of gar territory like I did. She’s right: I’m faster than she is. _And_ I have more endurance. I’m also better in a fight.”

She considered rattling off the rest of her finer qualities, but they paled in comparison to the cloudiness lurking in the back of her mind. So, she cut herself off after a wave of frustration.

Tael chattered and squeaked at Cara’s truncated list, and Cara exclaimed in reply.

“I’m not boasting!” She rolled her eyes at the wisp’s accusation. “I’m simply…”

She stopped short.

“Wait.” She turned her incredulous gaze to the wisp in her palm, bringing it closer to her face, half-believing she had begun to hallucinate. “Did you just say I was boasting?”

Tael whirred in the positive.

With a jolt of shocked elation, Cara heard herself let go of a peal of unbidden laughter. “I can understand you,” she murmured, tone molded by the residual smile on her face. She noticed it and steeled her jaw. “Say something else,” she insisted, squinting in concentration. When the wisp chattered again, she comprehended the meaning plain as the day around them.

“I _was_ listening to you the whole time!” she answered, charging forward again. “You must have simply started speaking more clearly.”

The wisp released a sarcastic chirrup. Cara scoffed down at her, then raised her eyes to the morning sky with a smirk.

She thought of Kahlan, then, and how she was going to tell her that she had begun to understand. Of how Kahlan would grin at her. Of that rush of feeling she let herself indulge in for just a second before disciplining it away.

But when she looked down to continue the conversation, her stomach dropped.

Tael’s light was getting weaker. It had faded enough that Cara could see the outlines of her previously-obscured wings and dainty limbs. She swallowed hard and pushed the concern from her face as she took up a brisker pace with her legs.

“So, now will you tell me what you want to talk about?”

* * *

As the hours progressed, the inane conversation was rapidly turning from innocuous to downright uncomfortable.

“ _What_ ?” Cara sputtered, lurching back from her own hand in indignant astonishment at Tael’s latest question. “No, I am most definitely _not_ going to get a child on Kahlan! Look, I’m not acquainted with the ins and outs of night wisp mating - nor do I want to be - but that is...not how it works for people.” She gave her head a violent shake, unable to wipe the suggestion’s implications from her mind. “Besides. Even if it was, I’m no Confessor’s mate.”

Tael twittered Kahlan’s earlier words back at her. The qualities of a Confessor’s appropriate mate. Strong, brave, noble. The little thing surely was engaging in the oddest form of flattery; she was also completely off the mark.

Strong? Physically, sure. Cara was conditioned and disciplined. In the face of temptation, though, apparently not, even for all the mental fortitude she thought she had cultivated through her training.

Brave? In some ways, some of the time. Not often, lately.

Noble? She would have felt bad for laughing in Tael’s face at this one.

The wisp poked at the brief silence with another warble. 

“No, it’s not that. Kahlan values me because, well, I’m effective,” she explained with a dismissive wave of her other hand. “I’m sworn to protect her, and I’ve been breaking my back to do so.” It was a truer claim than the wisp knew. More chittering. “Alright, fine, I guess you could refer to us as _friends_ , for simplicity’s sake. Kahlan’s said that a few times. Not me. I’ve said it once.”

Tael chirped quietly, inquisitively, with a hint of poorly-hidden mirth.

“I’m not afraid of getting close to her,” Cara growled into her fist, nostrils flaring. A dubious coo. “I do _not_ love her. I don’t!” Cara took in a deep, exasperated breath. This wisp would be the end of her, it was certain. “I’m not afraid to say it. Mord-Sith are afraid of nothing.”

She stomped ahead, hoping it sounded more convincing to Tael than it did to herself.

“Oh, stop nagging!” she groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as the night wisp pressed the issue. For all of the merciless and brutal torture she had been through, it was completely asinine how this near-nothing being was grinding her down. Part of the truth came roiling up and out of her mouth, like it was being drawn from her by some nefarious magic she couldn’t deflect. Maybe it was. She couldn’t tell. All she knew was that it was coming out, the violation she couldn’t comprehend telling, the ruin of her honor. “Alright!” she snapped. “I’m fond of Kahlan. _Infatuated_ , maybe. A little.” A quick, huffing breath of disbelief at herself. “There, I said it. Are you happy now?”

She was answered with a self-satisfied twinkling.

“You absolutely cannot chirp even a syllable of that to her,” Cara warned her in a gruff whisper. “Mord-Sith do not and _will_ not beg for anything, but consider this the closest you’ll ever see. Kahlan cannot know any of that. It’s my duty to protect her. Not to...be fond of her.” It was the height of ridiculousness to be pleading with a speck, but here she was. Maybe she was just as ridiculous in general.

In whichever case, Tael buzzed with reassurance.

“And regardless,” she continued, “you heard her. Her heart belongs to another, to my sworn lord, to a man who’s dead. Any thoughts or feelings I might have towards her are unbearably selfish. A dereliction.”

The night wisp had nothing to say to that for a moment. 

Cara thought she had been spared.

Then, Tael warbled an observation framed as a question - the most outrageous thing she had said since they had begun conversing in earnest.

“That’s _absurd_ ,” Cara said immediately and fiercely, shutting down the notion. “Respectfully and kindly.” The quieter addition was let go on one breath, more compulsory than anything. “You’ve known her for a matter of hours. I don’t care how strong the bond between the Confessors and night wisps might be, I don’t believe you.” A chattering. “Her smile? Are you being serious? Kahlan smiles at _everything_ . It’s actually infuriating.” Another warbled retort. “You just _know_ , then? Great. Convincing. If you were a person, I’d accuse you of being drunk, but I don’t think night wisps indulge like that, especially pregnant ones.” Her tone had become scathing and she realized it too late.

Silence, again, this one longer than any so far. As it continued, Cara stepped on and broke a brittle twig in half, feeling her heart sink in remorse for her grating words to the wisp, for her loss of composure.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured into her hand with a rare and naked, but awkward, contriteness. “I’m no good at this. Talking about anything like this. Not like Kahlan.” She sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted with an ache in her head. She had grown so used to talking over the past few hours that words just kept pouring out of her, straight into the air from the moment of consciousness. It was damnable, flawed, unreasonable. But she couldn’t stop them. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry like that. It’s all I feel, lately. It’s all I can stand to feel in the face of everything else. With how I’ve been failing. There are plenty of burdens I can carry, and have carried. But this...I’m just trying to survive it. It’s not an excuse. But I hope you can understand.”

More silence. No cooing. Cara was at once aware that the wisp was not simply offended by her tantrum. 

“Tael?” She opened her hand to look at her. “What’s wrong?”

The creature was curled against Cara’s leathered palm. The light around her was dim enough for Cara to see her whole body now, frail, withering, weak. She let out a low trill. Cara’s heart hammered in her ears as dread surged down the back of her neck.

“What do you mean, _you’re dying_?”

Another faint twinkling, barely even there at all.

“You’ve used up all your strength to save your babies,” Cara repeated, numb, to no response.

Determination mingled with the dread, giving it direction, an actionable purpose. 

She was not going to allow this to stack up as another foundering.

“Hold on. I’m going to get you to the birthing grounds.”

The tired heaviness plaguing her chest and legs could not stop her from breaking into a sprint. 

* * *

Kahlan had spoken truly as usual: as soon as Cara came upon the birthing grounds, she knew she was in the right place.

If the Aldermont’s falls themselves were resplendent, the grotto in which Cara stood was nothing short of stunning. The sight of it took the quake right from her fatigued limbs and returned her labored breath. Her senses were overcome all at once by what surrounded her. She was enclosed on all sides by lush density, by vivid greens and dappled pinks of fronds and vines and gravid lilies fed to bursting by the lavish midsummer sun and the falls’ generously flowing waters. The fecund scent in the air - the evidence of new life blossoming here - was thick-hanging and heavy, but not unpleasant. Cara breathed it in deep. The drone of unseen insects and trickling water washed over Cara’s fraught mind, divulging a swatch of peace over the fraughtness, a flash of simply being in this moment of awe.

It was entrancing, as she made a slow spin, taking in the hollow’s every angle. She could have remained that way forever, soaking up the explosive verdance and every crumb of natural calm.

But she had a task to complete.

“We made it,” she announced in breathy exaltation. “Tael?”

No answer. Cara looked at her softly-closed hand with apprehension.

“Tael?” She already knew what she would find if she opened her fist to reveal the wisp. 

She had to open it anyway.

The night wisp was crumpled in her palm, emitting the final anemic throes of her light. Cara watched as it faded entirely; she watched her white-blue fairy limbs make their slow and final collapse.

Seeing her last moment was like taking a dull blade from navel to neck.

A brackish taste flooded her mouth. It made her nauseous. She swallowed with a thick tongue. She let out a held breath and heard a cracked whimper at its end. Her head spun with discordant echoes and her vision swam with tears as some force propelled her leaden legs to step forward, towards a particularly lovely flower. With every ounce of sorrowful tenderness, she placed Tael’s body on one of its petals. The instant she let go of her, another weight, just as impossibly heavy as the wisp’s was impossibly light, dropped across her shoulders.

Cara looked at the wisp’s spent body and shattered. Her eyes began to stream, blatant, undisguised.

“I’m sorry I failed you.”

Her lament was whispered to Tael, but it was meant for so many more. For Kahlan. For Richard. For every soul who had the misfortune of coming across her while she was trying to be all that she simply was not.

And here, with the loss of this helpless creature, the one she didn’t even want to help in the first place, the one she _knew_ she could have shown so much more gentleness, Cara found herself standing at a precipice, faced by the culmination of her misdoings. She could see her broken parts and profitless jabs at hope dashed on the rocks far below; a weakening wall toppling with a finishing blow. This was it. This was the last sting of failure. It was time to stop trying to shove it away.

She had to leave. She had no idea where she would go. But she knew her very presence was tainting the beauty and purity of this place.

Moved by uneven breath, a head billowing with smoke, and a sweeping and ill-defined rage, all that she had, she turned to depart.

A chorus of high-pitched warbling caught her by the ear and forced her back around.

A swarm of tiny blue pulses was erupting with slow grace from the lily plant, scattering across the grotto, encircling Cara with their brand new light. Startled and agape, she watched them. She felt them. They thanked her.

She hadn’t failed.

“The babies survived,” she gasped, full throat, struck dumb, to nobody in particular. To herself. To her heart, to the jolting she felt there.

She _hadn’t_ failed.

And it was beautiful.

Standing in that grotto, swallowed in the most wonderful way by all of the night wisp babies around her, Cara was swept over by the same sensation as the initial moment of waking up. Of coming alive and forgetting, just for that first second of consciousness, everything that had happened. Her abduction, her skinny body unable to fight against being dragged away from her family. Her breaking and its indescribable pain. Her sisters’ betrayal. Richard, his death. Keeping it hidden. Kahlan in the Con Dar. The deafening silence after it. Every defeat, every disaster, every bite of weakness drowned out by these twinkling lights. Everything she was and had ever been and wanted to be was standing there, not out of reach. 

For just this otherworldly moment, she was Cara Mason.

It wouldn’t be permanent, she knew. It wasn’t an absolution, but it was something close.

The life lost there in the palm of her hand was devastating. But in the new life swelling and thriving all around her, Cara thought of Richard. Richard was gone, but she felt him there. His life was lost, but so much more of it was blooming. Her heart was warm. She missed him. He _was_ there. So fond, so peaceful. She was too connected to him, by oath, by blood, by the loyal and friendly bonds forged even outside of both, to not feel it. 

Maybe, just maybe, she thought she felt his pride through that warmth. She felt the change in her magnifying.

At once, she was not a violent burden with a mind that would not quiet. 

Thanks to Tael.

Thanks to Richard.

Thanks to _Kahlan_. 

Kahlan.

Maybe she didn’t have to hate herself for all she was feeling. One of the babies settled on her finger for a moment before floating on. Her heart was pounding.

More night wisps began to emerge from their hidden places, then, from every corner of the grotto. Cara heard them mourning their deep loss and celebrating all of the nascent life in the same breath. They took the babies astride of them, making promises, giving comfort, inviting them to join and learn.

She also heard the wizard’s voice repeating words spoken long ago, much more closely than she would have imagined. _They only come out for those they trust._

The wisps sang, for each other, for her, at one. Cara listened in silent wonder.

* * *

At sunset, the waning light hit the cascading falls, turning them to red. Lovers’ hearts, battle-spilled blood, it didn’t matter. It was gorgeous.

Kahlan found her then, still standing in the grotto, smiling with serene and unfettered awe at the dancing wisps. She turned at the sound of the Confessor’s footfalls in the underbrush, eyes brightening tenfold as they met Kahlan’s. Kahlan matched her expression and gave the grotto a sweeping look.

“You made it,” Kahlan affirmed with deep relief.

Cara started to nod, then looked aside. “Tael. She…” she stammered, voice trailing off. 

Without clarification, Kahlan understood, sighing with sorrow. 

“But her babies,” Cara continued, turning up her palms at the little wisps testing their wings. She looked for more words. None came. But she needed no more than what she said next. “It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Now that Kahlan was there, with a broad smile regaining its spot on her face, it was the truth. It was complete.

They decided to make camp there for the night.

Sitting side-by-side on their bedrolls, they watched the wisps come and go, glowing like stars much closer to them than the ones making their slow appearance above. 

“I was able to understand her, in the end,” Cara murmured into the contented silence, drawing her knees into her chest and draping her arms around them. Kahlan turned to grin at her, looking at her through her lashes. 

“I told you that you would,” she replied, leaning in. “What did she have to say?”

Cara thought about it and kept that little bit inside.

“Nothing much.”

Kahlan chuckled at the typically-verbose response. “Well, I’m sure she appreciated the companionship. It probably meant more to her than you’ll ever know.”

Cara wasn’t so sure of that. But she went on regardless. “I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I did what I had to do, what was asked of me.”

Crickets had begun to sound along with the wisps. Kahlan shook her head. “I’ll say it again: you need to give yourself some esteem. You’re worth more than your duty. You’re worth more than you give to others.”

For the first time in hours, Cara frowned, confused. “You just told me that you take in only what you give away.”

“Of yourself,” Kahlan explained. “You take in what you give freely of yourself. Not what you’re bound by force to give. And you still have plenty of yourself to offer. I might not be able to read you, Cara, but I don’t need to be able to read you to know that. To know you.”

More of those old words, from the recesses of Cara’s memory. _It’s a hard world, and we don’t get many chances to tell people how much they mean to us_.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.” Kahlan’s voice was a whisper, and her eyes were locked onto Cara’s, narrowed with tenderness and a bid for connection, for communication. Cara watched Kahlan’s hand edging towards her arm. 

But, like hitting an invisible barrier, she stopped the motion. She returned her hand to her lap, casting her eyes down, then back up at the wisps.

Cara’s lip flinched.

“I want to assure you that I’m not diseased, or engulfed in flames.” 

Kahlan looked back up at the offhand quip, brow furrowed.

“What?”

“I don’t despise your touch,” Cara mumbled into her knees. “ _You’ve_ been hesitating to give it, though. For days now.”

Kahlan controlled her voice, but her face faltered, taken aback by the observation.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Kahlan,” Cara scoffed. “Don’t insult me.”

Silence crashed in over them. The wisps came to a stiller pattern, as if sensing the tension. Cara stared straight ahead, holding the burning feeling at bay; she could see through the corner of her eye that Kahlan was uneasy. Her own hands were shaking, too.

“Alright,” Kahlan admitted, logged with uncharacteristic irresolution, closing her eyes and hanging her head. “I have been.”

“Why?” Cara asked, blunt and sharp, glad that Kahlan had admitted it but hurt by the honesty all the same.

“Cara,” Kahlan uttered, with an unspoken but still so apparent _please_ . Cara did not relent - she kept up the hard stare. Reach out. _Tell me_.

Kahlan sighed deeply, almost frantically, looking around before speaking again. “You’re right. You deserve to know.” She steadied herself with a moment with her eyes closed. Her face had gone pale in the dimming light. She was lovely.

“That night by the fire,” she began, quietly, choosing her words carefully (and Cara had never heard her struggle so), “I went to put my hand on your arm. But then, I felt like if I did, I was going to lose control of my power. That I was going to destroy you. The way I already almost did once, in the Con Dar.”

Cara had said she was not engulfed in flames. Now, she was not so sure.

For her part, Kahlan seemed unable to control her tongue either. “I’ve had flashes of it before. In the bed with you, in Thorncairn. Moments while we’re traveling. But that was the first time I thought I might actually lose control. I don’t understand it. It frightens me, Cara.”

Cara's mouth opened, but nothing came out. There were no words. There was only her pounding heart, her cheeks pin-pricking, her dizzy head. 

Kahlan’s eyes were terrified, crazy, helpless as they found Cara’s again. The blue of them was a perfect tether to the beauty that surrounded them. Her voice shook as she spoke. “Something started in me. I don’t know when. It makes me feel so guilty, so unlike myself. But in the same space, more like myself than I have been in a while. I feel connected to you in what we are and what we’ve seen. It makes no sense, but I’m finding that few things do right now.” She ran her fingers through her hair, a nervous, insecure tic. “With Richard gone, I didn’t think I could feel. But somehow, without him here, being here with you has made me feel grounded. And safe. And strong. Something I never expected, something I should be furious with myself for. You make me feel _something_.” 

While she was speaking, she had begun to lean over into Cara’s space, and Cara didn’t know if she had noticed or not. Cara surely had. She leaned in, too. Their faces were so close. Cara’s vision was tunneling. This was surreal. The world was floating. Anticipating her words was murderous.

“Cara.” Kahlan’s voice cracked, and she squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear escaped from one. She gave a little gasp. “I will always love Richard. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I’m saying. But you make me want...I want…” The words split and melted as they tumbled from her mouth. 

Cara tucked her chin. Their foreheads were touching now. It was singularly riveting. Kahlan’s breath was coming in little bursts from her mouth. Cara could feel it on her own.

“What do you want?” she asked in a thick whisper. Kahlan just moaned feebly, giving Cara a half-lidded look that went straight to her center. She was drunk on them, drunk on the lush surroundings, torn apart in the most perfect way by everything that had transpired here. By what was on the horizon.

“I want, too. Touch me,” Cara dared her. “I’m not afraid, Kahlan.”

Another lie. One of more enormous lies she had told. She was terrified. But it was a fear she felt ready to face.

Kahlan lifted her hand so slowly Cara thought she might not survive the wait. But when it settled on her cheek, there was no pain, no end to either of them. They both breathed in. Cara turned into the trembling contact, the pure comfort, closing her eyes. The corner of her mouth moved against Kahlan’s palm.

“Your heartbeat,” she panted, letting go of all the weight, all of the dark that had been looming within. Relinquishing the truth. _The Mother Confessor’s pure heart_ . The way all of this started. “I feel it. And your breathing. I feel _you_. In every place, all of the time. I can’t drown it out. I don’t want to.”

She heard Kahlan whimper and it casted her into fragments before their lips were brushed together, parted, clumsy. 

Kahlan’s mouth found true purchase first, and they both reeled. 

The kiss was chaste. Tentative. Nothing like the passion Cara had tasted countless times before. But it still sucked the marrow from her bones. Her world crossed itself. She felt a brief resurgence of the instinct she thought had been lost forever, there and gone again as Kahlan’s body twisted to meet hers more fully. A spiral into grace rather than a continued fall from it. Her throat was burning.

Cara opened her mouth in the slightest way, feeling much more reckless than the actual degree of the action. She felt Kahlan take in a sharp breath and then desperately curl into her. A fumbling grab at the collar of her leathers and Cara was pressed to her back, Kahlan over her, the contact never lost. 

She thought of the last time Kahlan had her pinned like this, of the cold-blooded terror and shattering heartbreak that came with it.

This time, she surrendered fully. She pulled her in closer, letting her one hand tangle in the hair at the Confessor’s neck, the other grasp at the small of her back. 

If it ended here, let it end. 

Wrong and right, lost and found, here, with Kahlan and her body and her mouth. A brazen scream after being quiet for so long. There were tears somewhere around their working lips, and Cara didn’t know whose they were and didn’t care. She tasted them all the same, salt mingled with the new sweetness of Kahlan’s kiss tearing her down and building her back up.

Then, it was over. Cara choked on a helpless moan as Kahlan withdrew all at once. Working on reflex, she followed her motion, sitting up with her, keeping their faces close.

“We have to stop. I can't...” Kahlan rasped, dismantled. Her cheeks were flushed, winded by the kiss, eyes darkening with the threat of history repeating. 

A long silence. Neither wanted to be the first to move from the moment, to disturb this aberrant equilibrium. Through it, Cara still felt Kahlan’s heart beating. Fast, unsure, but strong. Alive.

“I don’t know where to go now,” Kahlan admitted. “I’ve already learned that it’s futile to deny how I feel. I was foolish to think I could do it again, to _try_ to do it again. But Cara, this is...”

“A lot?” Cara offered, breathless and disoriented. Kahlan bent towards her, touching her head to Cara’s and closing her eyes. 

“I don’t want you at a distance,” she promised. “I want you with me. But I need time to sort through all of this. I don’t want it to hurt you. Is that something you can accept?”

Her whispered question chimed with a hope that made Cara blister.

She nodded against Kahlan’s forehead.

She could. 

She had survived worse.


	6. I Don't Know What This Howling Will Prove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needed to get this one done and out there!

From a distance, Aydindril looked to be as they left it months earlier: safe, all in one piece, unmarred by any scourge or suffering.

Cara sensed the wave of relief that rolled off of Kahlan when they made the mutual unspoken observation. But she hoped, for both of their sakes, that the lifting of her fear was not premature. They could not know for sure until they crossed the gates.

The sprawling city lay before them, perhaps an hour’s ride away. All that was left to cross the gentle verdant slope on which they were waiting, taking in the sight of the city becoming illuminated by the expanding rays of another new day. It was certainly welcome after seeing twelve similar sunrises (which turned into nights) of travel since their departure from Thorncairn. To Cara especially, though, seeing it was staggering - nothing comparable to its scale existed in D’Hara and its individual strongholds scattered across the Azrith Plains. The People’s Palace and its grounds could have fit twice inside of Aydindril’s walls, with room to grow. 

It seemed like an easy place to get lost.

The stone, granite, and marble buildings, colors variegated and intermingling, were pressed to bursting against the city’s tall crenelated ramparts. The whole thing looked to be carved into the mountainous ridge cradling it, as though it had been placed there by hard force. What she figured was the Wizard’s Keep, oft-referenced by Zedd, _was_ carved forcibly into the rock face, looming over the city like some mysterious shroud. Something about it made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

The Confessors’ Palace stood with magnitude in Aydindril’s very center, dwarfing the other buildings with both its size and grandeur. This was where Kahlan was born, where she was raised by her mother during her youngest years, where she was now duty-bound to rule. This was Kahlan’s place, Kahlan’s dominion, Kahlan’s destiny. Cara swallowed against the feeling of being very small and steeled herself.

To the northeast, Mount Kymermosst jutted proudly into the sunrise-orange sky. In winter, Kahlan had told Cara during some firelight conversation (in a voice that made her eyes heavy), the mountains and areas around Aydindril became all but impassable without well-trained horses and special infantry equipment rigged for snow and ice. Cara had had to imagine the snow-capped ridges and bitter cold. She had only seen the city in burgeoning spring four months before, and now, with high-summer haze obscuring the peak of Kymermosst instead of snowclouds. 

Aydindril was Cara’s capital city, too - by birth, but not by true upbringing. By dint of her training, her formative years seemed to have shifted later, from the first nine she had spent with her family at Stowecroft to the middling section of her now twenty-six summers. Two-thirds of her life in D’Hara, away from the thatch-roofed outskirts of Stowecroft, close enough to the D’Haran border to serve as a veritable font of girl-children for the Mord-Sith.

The Midlands were the once-home Cara no longer knew.

She wondered if she’d get to see an Aydindril winter. Past the equinox, past Shota’s promised storm. Just under two moons.

Kahlan’s voice grabbed hold of her wandering thoughts and pulled her mind from itself. Plenty about Kahlan was plenty distracting - a condition only amplified by their experience at the Falls of Aldermont, the words exchanged and the kiss that felt now like a fever dream. It was distant, surreal, like straining to reach something but having it puff into smoke between her fingers. It was too good to be true in a haunting sort of way, a way that made it seem like it was impossible that it even happened at all.

But it had. That much was clear by the moments of the past few days in which Cara had become fleetingly aware of Kahlan glancing at her mouth, freckled cheeks tinged beyond the sunburn of travel. It was in the way each smile she gave seemed to have an extra, intangible something behind it - or maybe they were the same as before, and the happening had just colored them differently to Cara. She didn’t know.

She did know, though, that she was spending time looking at Kahlan’s mouth, too. But Kahlan had asked for space, for time, and Cara had agreed. She was holding true, giving heaps of both. Sometimes her knuckles were white with the strain of not knowing more, of not addressing it or acting, but she could endure it. The torture of the comedown was nothing new. 

At least now, Cara did not have to worry about forgetting the feeling of an Agiel’s touch. The burning of it all was nearly as savage.

“I told Richard I’d come back here, when all of it was over,” Kahlan had said, gazing out at Aydindril’s expanse. The _it_ in her statement, Cara realized, was left undefined, and she figured it should probably stay as such. “It would seem that time is now.”

“Are you ready?” Cara gave her a sidelong glance, taking in the veiled apprehension revealing itself on Kahlan’s face. No, the veiled apprehension Kahlan was letting her see. There was a difference. 

“No,” she sighed. “But I have to be. So I will be, just like you said. There’s no way to avoid it anymore.”

And Cara gave her a nod, just a single bow of her chin, her best way of saying _I’m with you_ without having to struggle for the words or breach the tenuous divide between them.

She waited for Kahlan to take the lead with her horse, but Kahlan did not make any attempt to do so. Cara looked at her again, confused, and doubly so when she saw one of those loaded smiles breaking through Kahlan’s unease. It made the blue of her eyes glow in the emerging daylight.

“Can I tell you something I’ve kept to myself for quite a while?”

Cara balked, but did not let it show.

“If you must. But I won’t be a party to you simply wasting time in taking your chair.”

Kahlan acknowledged the jab but went on all the same.

“Do you know why I chose to stay with Richard and Zedd - and with you - after the fall of Darken Rahl?” 

Cara pursed her lips. “Your _unmatched_ moral fiber, your undying love for your legions of Midlanders, and your pure devotion to the Creator’s light?” she suggested with a sarcastic lift of her brow. Kahlan rolled her eyes.

“The way you said it is a bit overblown, but, yes, the search for the Stone of Tears did stand as a priority,” she admitted. “But there was something else.”

“Pray tell.” Deadpan. The way it should have been. The way it normally was. What was normal now?

Kahlan looked away from her and back to the city. Her city, the seat of her power. Her thoughtful, near-to-bemused expression remained.

“I was overcome by the thought of losing Richard to you in my absence.” She paused for the quickest second Cara had ever experienced. “I suppose I didn’t have to worry about that after all.”

Without a look, Kahlan left Cara no time to react before cueing her horse forward to a full gallop. Cara cursed her own suddenly-flustered attempt to get her beast running as well.

* * *

Second Confessor Dennee Amnell must have abandoned her break of fast in mid-bite and sprinted from the Confessors’ Palace at the Home Guard herald’s first syllable of their arrival. She met them not twenty paces in from the city gates.

She brought with her a smile laden with tears of delight and a belly laden with the apparent beginnings of a child.

“Little sister!” Kahlan exclaimed with trembling breathlessness, all but leaping to embrace her, forgetting the saddle-stiffness and any reservations about smelling like twelve days of sitting horseback. Cara took up the reins of Kahlan’s horse, with a twinge in her stomach and half of a hope to remain unaddressed. Dennee looked much more formidable, more regal, than she had months ago: hair freely flowing, face unpainted, in a flowing black Confessors’ dress instead of a courtesan’s outfit. Cara’s jaw rang with the crushing kick of a greeting she had received the last time she saw the slender woman before them. 

“Kahlan, we’ve all been so worried,” Dennee breathed, resting her head on Kahlan’s shoulder in the extended embrace despite the grime of travel. “I prayed endlessly to the good spirits for your return. Through it all, even with the state of things, I knew they would lead you back to here. To me.”

“The things you love will always come back to you,” Kahlan repeated their little phrase, smoothing Dennee’s hair. She broke the embrace to look at her, keeping her hands on her sister’s shoulders. As she did, she let out a soft peal of laughter. “I’m not sure I’ll ever grow accustomed to seeing you with dark hair, Dennee,” she commented, “or with child!” She beamed at Dennee’s belly, awestruck, placing a tender hand on its budding curve.

“I know it seems outrageous - a new life in the face of so much death,” Dennee replied with a small smile to match. “But the line of Confessors must continue, and an opportunity to do so presented itself. I’m just grateful to Lucinda’s spirit to have this second chance. Edrand - oh, he’s growing like a weed - is excited to have a little sister. And he’ll be just as glad to truly meet his aunt.”

Cara was struck by a brief image of Grace, then, along with her little girl, Ella, and her son; Cara quickly realized she either couldn’t remember or didn’t even know the boy’s name.

“And I’ll be glad for that as well.” Kahlan’s joyful face slowly transformed to one of gravity. “But unfortunately, it will have to wait a bit longer. I’m afraid there’s much we need to discuss.” She released Dennee and folded her hands at her waist. Dennee nodded solemnly.

“You’re right. Forgive me, Kahlan - when I saw you, I only wanted to think of happy things.” 

For the first time, she looked beyond Kahlan to where Cara stood with the horses and their Home Guard accompaniment. Cara’s jaw clenched as Dennee’s eyes, teeming with the coldness of that rejected half-apology, flickered over her. She did not look away when Dennee’s harsh gaze met her own, but held it there, stiff-postured in the face of the Confessor’s hardly-withheld scorn. 

She would hold Dennee’s eyes no matter what. She would hold the eyes of the woman whose life she ruined. The woman whose life she had taken, once. 

Kahlan’s sister, whose life she had taken.

In that fleeting moment of thinly-hostile eye contact, a grating dread seized Cara’s nerves. This was a heinous oversight. Cara felt foolish for not having considered it.

In that fleeting moment, Cara felt very foolish in general.

She kept her eyes still.

“We’ll speak in my chambers.” Dennee finally ended the brittle impasse, looking back to Kahlan instead. “We don’t need to convene the entire council at this very moment. While they’ll be as thrilled as I am by your arrival, I’m willing to bet that they will also be at your throat with an abundance of issues that can wait until you’re more settled.”

“I appreciate that more than you know,” Kahlan said with a grateful nod, cupping Dennee’s cheek in her hand. “I’d also appreciate the chance to bathe before I hold an audience with anyone who does not know me beyond the dirt on my face.” Dennee chuckled. 

“Of course. Men, stable their horses and bring their things to the palace,” she commanded. In a flash of red tunics and chain mail, the Home Guard soldiers flanking them eased the reins from Cara, leaving her unhidden. She allowed one now-empty hand to fall to her side and the other to lay idly on her axe; she realized how the stance must have looked and, making a quick and unsure change, silently cursed herself.

The quickest route to the central palace was to walk King’s Row, a wide and well-maintained street lined by the capital palaces belonging to the dignitaries and representatives of the Midlands nations. While each was uniquely constructed in reflection of its land’s culture, all were similarly splendid. None, though, held a candle to the magnificence of the Confessors’ Palace. 

That morning, the avenue was hectic. Palace staff were barking relentless, repeated orders to an endless throng of servants as they carried large trunks and other accoutrements, scurrying from entryway to entryway with laborious speed. All were so focused on their tasks that they hardly noticed the Second Confessor’s personal guard, surrounding the returned Mother Confessor, marching through.

As Kahlan observed the commotion all around them, Cara could see the question forming in her mind. It looked just like the affairs at Thorncairn, on a colossally larger scale.

“King’s Row is lively as I remember it,” she remarked to Dennee, brow furrowed. “I’m glad to see it, but was not expecting it to look like this.”

Dennee took a breath and shrugged with some hidden meaning. 

“You’re not the only one returning to the city today,” she explained. “Many of the dignitaries have been making their way back here over the past fortnight. It’s as you said, Kahlan: we have much to discuss.”

* * *

A familiar but unexpected face awaited them in the solar of Dennee’s chambers.

“Mother Confessor.” Prince Fyren of Kelton addressed her with a fist to his chest and a shallow bow at the waist. The show of fealty was accompanied by a smirk that, given his past deeds, was difficult to read as anything but smug. “Your return to Aydindril has been long awaited.”

“Prince Fyren,” Kahlan acknowledged the greeting with a stiff nod, visibly bristling with the half-remembered dealings with the usurper during their botched visit to the city. Cara’s distaste was less diplomatically hidden. She scowled at him outright, and at the image of him charging, sword drawn and swinging fiercely, at Richard.

Dennee touched Kahlan’s shoulder in reassurance. “Don’t worry. He’s not a threat,” she promised, gliding past them to stand beside him. “When Olderan’s Amulet was repaired, he was released from your confession and thrown into the dungeons. After you called for me, the Council ruled that he be re-confessed for his treason. He has since recovered from the wound Richard gave him and proven himself to be an indispensable asset in our struggles here.” Her face broke with the beginnings of a smile, then, as she cradled the small bump under her dark Confessor’s dress. “He has also sired the next Confessor. That fragment of you had at least one correct idea, apparently, in taking him for a mate.”

Kahlan gave a wordless signal of assent, clearly preferring not to relive the past ordeal. Dennee did not press the issue. Instead, she sat at the table still decorated by the deserted remains of her breakfast and gestured for them to do the same. Fyren stood behind her, hands folded at his back, chest puffed, shoulders drawn tight. As Kahlan took her seat, Cara, without noticing, found herself mirroring his position behind Kahlan. Dennee looked at her, one eyebrow lifted, lips forming into a thin line.

“Sit or leave, Mord-Sith,” she said in a carefully-measured tone - a Confessor’s tone. Cara’s fists flexed behind her back at the brusque address. “Your hovering is unsettling.” She clicked her tongue in punctuation. “Hear this once and only once: out of respect for my sister and the Seeker, I won’t stand to you unless you give me a very compelling reason to do so. While I hope you won’t, I’m not yet convinced.”

Cara had no rebuttal but to fill the chair next to Kahlan, hoping to betray none of the discomfited reluctance burning through her. It felt like poison.

“I understand, Dennee, and I thank you for that. I know your heart - all of its kindness and capacity for mercy. I know you’ll come to learn that Cara’s loyalties can be trusted,” Kahlan assured her as Cara settled beside her. The words were both a promise of Cara’s trustworthiness and a gentle but firm and final edict: despite the unbearable darkness of events past, Cara was to be welcomed in Aydindril. As she spoke, Kahlan’s eyes rested on Cara, briefly, sidelong, subtly apologetic. It was minimally comforting but comforting all the same. Cara felt a faint surge of warmth break the unease.

After another moment of silent sternness, Dennee’s expression melted once again into that of a doting younger sister. 

“Tell me everything.”

And Kahlan did. 

Kahlan told her everything, succinct yet complete, illustrating every twist and turn of the road that led them to her sitting room that morning. She spoke of Rothenberg and the Sisters of the Dark, of the Maternity Spell and the reunion with their father (and mother), and of Dunshire, of the Order of Ulric at Valdia and the scroll imparting knowledge of the use of the Stone of Tears. Kahlan told Dennee of the prophecy centered on her survival and its influence on the decision to split from the team and seek safety in solitude. Finally, with a quivering voice and a hesitantly bitten lip, she told Dennee of Richard’s death, of Cara’s Agiels and all of the incertitude surrounding what was to come.

“Oh, _Kahlan_.” Dennee reached across the table to grasp her sister’s hands, squeezing them tight, looking at her with tearful eyes. “I don’t have words. I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t sure what to say when he was not with you today, but now that I know…” Her voice trailed off. “With what we saw here in Aydindril, we were hoping it was all over. For good.”

“What do you mean?” Kahlan asked with sharp immediacy. 

“Not long after I arrived here at your call, baneling attacks became more and more frequent, both from outside and within our walls,” Dennee began to explain. Fyren, still standing quietly behind her, nodded. “We evacuated the dignitaries to their homelands, for better or worse. The Council implemented as many precautionary and protective measures as we could. Doubling and tripling patrols, ranging parties, mandatory burning of the dead. It helped, somewhat, for a time. But eventually their sheer numbers were enough to swarm the city.”

Dennee went on to describe a fortnight-long siege of the capital carried out by an amalgamated company of banelings from all across the Midlands. Its numbers would swell and fall day by day, but there were always enough banelings to freeze the city. Aydindril made a strong effort with incendiary, thermal, and projectile warfare, tripling defense at every entrance, manning every arrowslit with any soul able to send a bolt even twenty meters, locking down, and waiting with bated breath. 

“We were blessed with a good harvest in the spring and bouts of heavy rain over those weeks,” Dennee pointed out. “We all grew a just little gaunter during the conflict, but we managed to come through relatively unscathed with the help of a more vile sort of starvation.”

Cara understood at once how it ended. Phantoms of that deep, gnawing hunger crawled over her - the excruciating drive to fulfill the day’s kill, to hold up to the Keeper’s bargain. She shuddered with the disgusting recollection.

“You starved them of fresh bodies,” she said through the wracking. “Of beating hearts to stop.”

“That’s what we thought,” Dennee said without looking at her. “We gave them no direct kills. Their numbers began to dwindle in earnest on the twelfth day. We watched many return to the Underworld when their debt was not fulfilled. Many more simply abandoned the standoff altogether. We don’t know where they went, but soon, they were gone altogether. This was about two months ago, and we have not seen even a straggler since. No more attacks. We thought it was over.” Dennee took a deep breath. “We sent for the emissaries to return weeks ago. Each has made it here unharmed, so far. We thought it was over.” The last phrase was a numb repetition, spoken like a ghost.

“I’m proud of how you handled all of this, little sister,” Kahlan praised her, this time taking up Dennee’s uncertain hands with her own. “And Aydindril’s experience does not seem to be unique. I don’t know what it means - but I _do_ know that it is not over. Dennee, we came here because we received a new prophecy from Agaden Reach. I am to take the First Chair as the Mother Confessor. There is a tempest - coming on the winds, the witch woman said - that will be upon us by the equinox. While the words of prophecy are vague, I can only imagine that we have not seen the end.”

“Then we’ll meet it together.” Dennee gave a resolute nod. She pulled her hands from Kahlan’s after a final squeeze, then placed her palms on the table and stood. “The chair is yours. I’m so happy you’re back - for myself, for Aydindril, for the Midlands. We’ll face and weather whatever comes. For Richard. For the world of the living in its entirety.”

Silence fell between the four of them as Dennee’s words sank in. Even confessed Fyren had to react to them with another fist to his chest. 

“We’ll have no choice but to.” Kahlan slowly joined her sister in standing. “Though I do believe there’s plenty of time for Cara and I to bathe first. Do you think so?”

The Amnell sisters stared at each other for a moment before breaking into the same laughter, one that had been held apart for too long. Cara could plainly see how much they shared. It made her guts drop.

“No offense intended, Kahlan, but you truly need it.” Dennee mumbled from behind her hand, suppressing another round of it. “No better time to tell you than now: we’re receiving the arrived dignitaries for the first time this evening. They’ll be delighted to see that the Mother Confessor has come home, too. Best polish your silver tongue.” 

Kahlan groaned. “I should have guessed."

Dennee shrugged, smiling sympathetically. 

“Not much either of us can do. The council insisted. Good relations and all that. Heavy lies the crown, Mother Confessor.”

* * *

The moment the nervous maidservant opened the door for her, Cara realized why Kahlan thought she would like these rooms in particular, and why she was glad they happened to be empty. 

They were _quite_ red. 

The solar was much smaller than that of Dennee’s rooms, but no less grand in its decoration. It was almost ostentatious to look at. The walls were a light scarlet and the marbled floor swirled with scarlets and burnt orange. Of course, the dressings on the stained glass window matched. A finely-molded fireplace and an ornately-leafed desk were among the various amenities Cara was fairly confident she would never use. 

Glancing through the door to the bedroom area, Cara should not have been shocked to see more of the color, splashed all across the floors and walls. The bedclothes bragged with a particularly sumptuous shade of it, embroidered with gold. The red velvet chair next to the bed seemed almost an afterthought. In her leathers, Cara probably could have hidden indefinitely against the far wall of the bedroom, completely camouflaged. 

Despite the close coordination, she somehow felt out of place - ungainly. It was not a welcome feeling.

The bed looked plush and inviting, at least. And Cara did prefer the color, though it was certainly provided in abundance here. 

“Draw a bath for you, Lady...ma’am?” one of the maidservants squeaked from behind her, making them both jump: one at the sudden addition to all the sensory stimulation, the other at the leather-clad Mord-Sith jolting at her.

At Cara’s nod, one of the women, probably glad for the chance to busy herself in another adjoining room (which Cara was anticipating to be, well, red), dashed to fill the tub and heat the coals. 

“Shall I...take your leathers for laundering while you bathe and rest?”

“No,” Cara replied curtly with a dismissive wave of her hand. Nobody was touching them but her. She remembered herself, then, and repeated the command in an easier tone. “No. I will see to them myself. Just bring me your best cleaner, and the lanolin and neatsfoot oil.”

The directive was clear enough that the servants saw it fit to depart without further question. All involved were happier for it.

Cara’s bath was pleasurable, next to hedonistic, after so long without a truly proper wash. It brought her mind back to her last soak at a Mord-Sith temple - to being accompanied by no fewer than two women in the bath, to disciplining Triana, and the like. This was nearly as gratifying. Almost.

The water was richly perfumed and piping hot; it was like a miracle for the deep soreness in her muscles, tight and knotted from so much riding. Cara scrubbed the grime from her body and massaged the cleansing water into her scalp, sloughing off the dirt and stale sweat. She knew again what it was like to be fully clean, and remembered that the feeling of being fully clean was second only to the feeling of being doused with blood and adrenaline after a victory in battle.

She wondered when she would get to feel that again.

She must have soaked for longer than she should have, because when she stood, her limbs were heavy and sluggish. The water had been soothing, but also made her dead tired. She made a cursory attempt at drying off before dragging herself to the bedchambers. Crawling into and lying prone on the featherbed, not bothering to turn down the vibrant bedcovers, Cara pressed her cheek to the sumptuous pillow and waited for sleep.

It never came. 

Instead, she lay there with her eyes closed, exhausted but hosting a whirlwind in her head, images of Dennee’s contemptuous glaring and the baneling siege of Aydindril and Fyren rushing at Richard and Shota’s damned tempest. And Kahlan, seated in the First Chair. Always Kahlan. Her image burned the brightest.

Cara breathed deep and caught the scent of lavender clinging to her skin from the bathwater. This, too, was Kahlan. She was enveloped within her there in that bed, alone.

Cara decided that a nap was futile, despite the throbbing behind her eyes. She rested her body anyway. Time managed to pass. Her mind did not quiet.

When she supposed it had been a few hours, she pried herself from the bed to prepare herself to be presentable. Her naked skin felt so soft; she would make sure the same was true of her leathers. Entering the solar, she was content to see that the maidservants had brought items for which she had asked, along with a platter piled with brown bread and sliced pears. She ripped off a hunk of the bread and stuffed it into her mouth hungrily before beginning.

Her actions were so well-practiced and regimented that they were almost like moving in a dream - meditative, sacred. With her leathers laid out on the table before her, she methodically brushed and wiped the road dust and other impurities away. When they were clean, she began to buff them with the lanolin and oil, putting her full weight into each stroke, making painstaking work until they were as shiny and supple as the day she had earned them. 

She donned them and worked the pillow-dried tangles from her hair. Facing herself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedchamber, she frowned. Something felt empty, missing. She felt in an odd state, standing there in the way she had stood since leaving Stowecroft, leathers open and lax.

 _Mord-Sith_ , Dennee had addressed her. She had a name. Cara Mason. No, just Cara. But she was Mord-Sith. She was _still_ Mord-Sith, without the Lord Rahl. She could be Mord-Sith in this new place. She would try.

She knew her next objective. She braced herself against the asinine wave of nerves it sent rushing over her.

Somewhere along the way, her things had been ported to her chambers. Cara pulled the discarded pieces of her leathers from her pack: dark, inflexible corset, neckpiece, and her Agiels. She wrapped herself in the body piece, pulling the buckles tight as she could, and attached the high-collared armor. She stood still, allowing herself to recall the restriction cutting at her throat, across her middle, sublimated in the discomfort. 

Her Agiels, though, were not added to the outfit. She placed them on the fireplace mantel, as far out of sight as she could keep them while not fully disrespecting them.

Once again face-to-face with her reflection, Cara began the final step. With a cold glare of determination at her own face, she buried her fingers in her hair. Kahlan had been right. It had grown long.

Her hands remembered before her mind did, the ways of weaving her hair through itself just as she was weaving a proud, harrowing past into this brave new territory. Two parts intertwining, creating something new, falling at the brink of something unknown. 

The braid was a simple one - a low-tied plait, not elaborate and intricate as it once was - but it was a braid nonetheless.

Cara finished just as two knocks boomed at the outer door to her chambers.

“The Mother Confessor,” a deep voice bellowed in announcement, undoubtedly belonging to one of the several members of the Home Guard. Cara made for the door, relishing in the corset’s unyielding grip on her midsection. She grasped the knob, preparing to fire a sarcastic comment about feeling _so very important_ that the Mother Confessor would come a-calling herself.

But when she pulled the door open, any and all clever words scampered away. All she could do was stare.

It was Kahlan in the doorway, scrubbed as clean as Cara was. Her lustrous hair was touched with a gentle curl, half pulled back and tied, the rest cascading past her shoulders. The messaline white of the Mother Confessor’s dress gleamed even in the torchlight, looking to be lit from within instead of outside. A choker of jewels rested upon her pale throat. Cara wanted to touch it. There were so many things she wanted. Her pulse broke into a fit.

Kahlan, too, looked caught in a half-brewed but ultimately-discarded thought, seeing Cara dressed fully for the first time in half a year. Blue shock in her eyes turned to something different, something cloudier, just for an instant; through her own distraction Cara watched her swallow and blink before speaking.

“You’ve...certainly made an outfit choice here.”

Cara crossed her arms; her freshly-conditioned leathers creaked.

“I wouldn’t dream of looking like a slob next to the Mother Confessor while she greets and mingles with her contemporaries.” She raised an eyebrow. “I have a certain amount of pride, Kahlan.”

Kahlan’s face broke with a tiny smile. “A certain amount.”

“I can remove the extras, if you want.”

Kahlan considered it.

“No,” she decided. “The look of it invokes a generation of fear, but a little fear might be what I need to show these people after so long with displaced leadership. Keep it.”

Cara nodded, stepping into the echoing corridor and shutting the door behind her. They began to walk to the Great Hall, where the pomp of King’s Row would soon be arriving, led by two Home Guard soldiers.

“Besides the fear in them, me dressing like this makes you look powerful.” Cara tilted her head towards Kahlan. She caught another whiff of lavender as she did. She was unsure if it was from Kahlan or from herself. “The Mother Confessor, returned to Aydindril in permanence, ready to rule and command with an iron will and supreme justice after bending a scary, depraved Mord-Sith to her will.”

Kahlan nearly laughed, but contained it to a playful grin.

“I did that?” she asked, eyes wide in feigned surprise.

“ _No_ ,” Cara answered without missing a beat, in a hissed voice that dismissed the suggestion as completely preposterous, as if she hadn’t just spoken it herself.

* * *

Cara had to wonder if Kahlan’s face was aching after hours of formal reception and speaking and smiling and political posturing. It seemed that way. Her expressions had transformed from natural, at first, to somewhat strained after the first hour, to downright drained as the evening wore on. It must not have been apparent (or of care) to anyone but Cara. Lords and ladies simply kept flocking to her, one by one. Each encounter was the same. They began with a deep bow, which moved them to some emphatic reassurance that the Mother Confessor, her safety, and her eventual return had been in their intimate prayers to the Creator. Some seemed genuine, more seemed duplicitous, but Kahlan had to respond to each sentiment in kind, no matter its veracity. There was small talk, inconsequential compliments, and the occasional veiled supplication that Kahlan had to redirect until a more appropriate time. It was mind-numbing to Cara, who hadn’t had to utter a single word since they arrived. She could only imagine Kahlan’s head turning to mush with all of the formalities.

One Queen Cyrilla of Galea was talking Kahlan’s ear off about something or other. Cara stood a pace and a half behind Kahlan, pin-straight, hands folded behind her back. She silently surveyed the finery-clad bodies as they looped around the room, engaging in niceties, sipping endlessly from golden goblets, and welcoming each other back. She thought of Fyren standing behind Dennee earlier that morning. She wondered if she looked like she had been confessed, too. 

Every so often, the collective eyes of a pocketed group would flick at her and down again, some in trepidation, some in old burning anger, some in pure astounded impress. Exactly what she had expected.

“Oh, we _do_ wish you had been able to visit Galea for the spring festival this year,” Cyrilla was yammering on, palm to her velvet-covered chest in a gesture of overblown longing. “Mother Confessor Serena had been a fixture there for many years. We were sorely sad to be without. But now, we can look forward to our new Mother Confessor joining us next year.” 

Kahlan thanked her with a courteous, smiling nod, indicating that it was time for Cyrilla to move on. She picked up on the implication and shuffled away.

Without looking at Cara, Kahlan mumbled to her. “She’s a liar. Queen Cyrilla has no love for any single member of this council, particularly not its First Chair. She plays nice, always has, but she can’t stand that we won’t let her take up other nations’ resources for her own benefit. It’s infuriating.”

Cara could not say she was invested in these small snippets of the political squabbles of the Midlands, but she would stand there and at least half-listen as Kahlan spouted them. 

A man approached them, then, slight of build, wearing polished armor that looked amiss among the regalia of the other attendants. He did not seem to feel out of place, however, as he bowed to Kahlan, sweeping his crimson cape across himself.

“Mother Confessor,” he greeted her as he stood, raising his dark eyes to meet hers with a boldness Cara had not yet seen from anyone present. “I be gladdened for your safe return. I’ve not yet had the honor of meeting you. I be Lord General Tobias Brogan, reporting from Nicobarese, here tonight in place of our king. He was too weary for travel you see. I hope this is not an offense.”

“Hardly,” Kahlan replied with all of the necessary warmth.

“I not be one for gatherings like this, but I wanted to pledge my fealty and my force to you. Please let me know how my men and I can be of aid should our current good fortune turn.” Brogan smirked under his wiry mustache, pulling at an old scar at the corner of his mouth. “It be my will and the will of all of Nicobarese that these banelings be decimated. We will meet them with no lack of might and a full lack of mercy.”

At the end of his oath, his onyx eyes shifted to Cara, holding her gaze and nodding. Her lip stiffened, and she held him there until he turned back to Kahlan. The look lasted just a split second, but it carried weight. He had been the first soul here brash enough to directly meet her eye. It was at once vindicating and chilling. 

“The Midlands should feel safer in the wake of your promise,” Kahlan said with formal geniality, and Brogan dipped away without needing any further hint of the conversation’s end. She looked glad for that.

Cara watched as he strode across the hall and away without speaking to anyone else. His cape swished behind him as he vanished through the doors. She was about to comment when yet another daintily decorated woman floated into Kahlan’s space; Kahlan suppressed a sigh and reset her smile. 

“Duchess Lumholtz.” Kahlan’s voice took on a cloying quality. “It’s wonderful to see you after so long. And your appearance tonight! You look stunning.”

“Not as stunning as you, Mother Confessor,” the woman said in an familiarly-exaggerated refute, bowing so deeply Cara thought she might topple sideways. “In Kelton, we were downright _fraught_ with worry over your safety. Your presence here is a balm for our weakened souls.” Cara almost forgot herself and rolled her eyes as she threw the back of her hand over her face in a theatrical interpretation of her words. Her face itself was painted almost as garishly as Cara’s room, lips stained a ridiculous shade of red to match it completely. 

A few more empty words and both Duchess and Mother Confessor were satisfied - Lumholtz lilted away for another serving of wine. Kahlan sighed deeply, this time, looking bone-weary.

“Mother Confessor,” Cara whispered as the duchess left earshot.

“Yes, Cara?” Kahlan did not look back at her, but kept a smile plastered toward the crowd.

“I apologize.”

“For?”

“My ignorance, and for embarrassing you. If I had known it was the requisite, I would have painted my face just like the Duchess Lumholtz. I’ll know for next time.”

Kahlan snorted out loud and quickly covered her mouth with her hand to hide it. Cara allowed a small, self-satisfied sneer. 

Luckily, the cream of the Midlands’ crop seemed to be too distracted by their libations and conversations to notice the Mother Confessor’s gaffe; save for Dennee, closest to them, who shot Cara a pointed glare. Cara’s grin wilted, but she did not shrink away.

“I think I’ve danced and put on airs for them enough,” Kahlan told her sister after another moment. “I haven’t slept properly in nearly a fortnight. If we’re meeting with the council in the morning, I want to be as fresh as possible. I’m going to take my leave. You can handle it from here, I’m sure?”

“Yes, Kahlan. I understand.”

Kahlan cleared her throat and addressed the room in a comradely but authoritative tone that shot straight down Cara’s spine.

“Esteemed dignitaries and representatives: I give you my most gracious thanks for joining us this evening. I have seen much during my travels and trials of the past year - many things indescribable in their beauty, and many more things unspeakable in their horror. But what I saw while I was away could pale in comparison to what I see here tonight: a strongly-allied Midlands, ready to face a common enemy. Ready to face _any_ common enemy. I’m humbled to have returned to something so hopeful.” She paused, taking in the multitude of eyes trained on her, hanging on every word. “Now, I am travel-weary, a feeling I’m sure plenty of you share with me. I am going to retire for the evening. But, please, remain as long as you desire to take part in drink and revelry. I thank you for your understanding.”

Her speech was met with a handful of “here”s, raised goblets, and approving nods. As the guests returned to their business, Kahlan quarter-turned to Cara. 

“Walk with me?”

Cara was not going to refuse. Kahlan was _surely_ not going to leave her there alone with those people. 

As she trailed Kahlan out of the great room, Cara was fully aware of Dennee’s gaze burning into the back of her head. 

* * *

The Mother Confessor’s chambers were, of course, the largest in the palace. They also happened to be the most tastefully and simply decorated of the few Cara had seen. This was surprising, but, as she reconsidered, quite fitting for their occupant. The sitting room was host to three marble fireplaces, obviously unlit during the hot summer night. In the winter, they would surely throw mighty heat. Moonlight cast an ethereal light through the cavernous room as it filtered through the half-drawn drapes of the windows, which spread nearly from floor to ceiling. A long, glossy mahogany table sat straight in the middle, fit for sharing meals and conducting small committee meetings. An equally-opulent writing desk was positioned next to the window - perfect for distracted gazing when a break was needed during some intense writing.

But Cara saw those things only in a blur. When they entered her rooms, Kahlan bid her to follow her deeper into the bedroom. 

“Is this...proper?” Cara asked, feeling obligated to, much more concerned with the optics of it than its actual propriety. 

Kahlan gave her a confused look. Her eyes looked so tired, and Cara realized how very exhausted she was too. “Why wouldn’t it be? I just wanted to talk for a bit before we sleep.”

It did not fully answer Cara’s question - but Cara did not ask for further explanation.

One step into the bedroom, Cara felt luxuriant carpet under her boots. Its softness sent a throb of comfort from her ankles to her knees to her hips after standing rigidly for so long on marble flooring. Kahlan had made her way to the glass doors to the stone balcony, pulling back the deep blue drapes, letting the moon-and-starlight spill into the bedroom as well. 

In the soft new illumination, Cara couldn’t help but stare at Kahlan’s bed. 

It was huge, with four tall posts rising from its corners, looking nearly like a castle in its own right. It was vast enough to spend a whole day in; it was vast enough to be lost entirely within it, for good. The look of it caught Cara’s breath and pulled at her stomach in the most delicious and dangerous way.

Kahlan had said something. Cara had completely missed it. She blinked twice and tried to focus on something beyond her sinful thoughts of that bed. “What did you say?”

Kahlan blinked, too, before she repeated herself. “I asked if you wouldn’t mind stepping out while I change.” She held out a folded garment. “I also have this, if you want to borrow it. I didn’t know if there were any nightclothes in your chambers. But I’ve only ever known you sleep in your leathers or in nothing at all, so…”

“Thank you,” Cara interrupted her, taking the offered clothes from her hands. When she made no further movement after a moment, Kahlan cleared her throat. Cara jumped at the vocalization and stepped outside of the bedroom door. Leaning back heavily against the adjacent wall, she tried with every ounce of her washed-out will to banish the image of Kahlan undressing from her head. 

It was futile.

“You can come in,” Kahlan announced after giving Cara’s imagination far too much time to get into trouble. With a shaking breath, Cara stepped back into the room. Kahlan, now dressed in a simple but incredibly fine summer nightshirt, shoulders exposed, covered to mid-thigh, frowned at her.

“You didn’t change.”

This was turning into a back-and-forth of muddled confusion. Cara narrowed her eyes, trying to think through the lust curling in her core.

“Am I walking back to my chambers in nightclothes?” she asked, voice thin and dry. “Or are you trying to ask me to stay here?”

Kahlan sat on the edge of the bed. It sunk under her, cradling her weight, looking so comfortable and alluring that Cara wanted to scream. 

“Cara, I-”

Cara shook her head against an uprush of agitation.

“You told me that you need time. That you need space. I’ve been heeding that wish.”

“I know. I know you have. And I do.” Kahlan sighed, looking at Cara with those tired eyes that were still somehow shimmering with the moon’s glow. “That’s what I wanted to make sure you heard tonight: my thankfulness for having you there with me. I know it’s not your preferred way to spend an evening. And I appreciate that you did anyway, more than you know.”

“It’s nothing.” It was nothing. 

Kahlan was unconvinced.

“It’s not nothing. It’s meaningful to me. Accept that, at least.” 

Cara might have nodded, a half-gesture.

“It’s just been such a long day. I don’t know what we should be doing. I don’t know what’s right.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, I do know what’s right. But I want to be close to you.” She opened her eyes and looked at Cara straight to center, straight through the extra armor binding her body. “If you don’t want that, I understand.”

And Cara did want it, more than she wanted most things. But there were great divides between _wanting_ and _deserving_ and _rightfully having._

And she was weak and inept at seeing them.

If Kahlan was inviting hell to break loose, so would she. She was born for nothing more. Crossed lines and inexpiable crimes.

“I’ll change.”

When she had, she stepped into the bedroom for a third time, and the carpet felt even better under her bare feet than it had under her boots. Kahlan was already in the bed, watching as Cara worked her hair out of its plait. 

“Your armor and braid still suit you,” Kahlan remarked as Cara shook out the braid’s final tresses. She slipped into the bed, then, too, reluctantly but also like a moth to a flame. Kahlan reached over to smooth out a tangle, and the flame became an inferno. “But you look more comfortable dressed down.”

“So do you,” Cara murmured, throat scratching, as she rested her head on the softest pillow she had ever felt.

Dead quiet fell over them as they lay together, far enough apart to not touch, but too close for the size of the bed. Their eyes, uncertain and boggling, stayed fixed to the other’s in the starlight. 

The space between their bodies was haunted by that kiss. 

And something else, Cara knew. 

She spoke in a whisper.

“It seems that there are complications borne of my presence here. I’m sorry.”

Kahlan tucked an arm under her pillow, settling herself further into its feathered solace. “Like?”

“Your sister,” she stated simply, in a very small voice. There was too much else to say but too few words to say them. 

Kahlan’s eyes cleared, then saddened, and finally softened.

“Dennee has unmatched kindness in her heart,” she said after a moment of deliberation. “It will take her some time. She doesn’t know what turned you into that person who did those wretched things. She doesn’t know the orders you had to follow. We do, because we saw them ourselves.” The _we_ was undefined. “She doesn’t see how you’ve changed, thanks to how Richard opened your eyes. But she will, someday.”

 _Thanks to you, too_ , Cara thought, but would never risk to say. 

Both Cara and Kahlan were entirely spent, but sleep descended upon neither. They just lay still, looking, and breathing, feeling the throbbing of that empty space. Breathing became quicker as the minutes passed, tortuous in their slowness but still too fast to fathom. Kahlan’s lower lip was caught between her teeth as her chest rose and fell, eyes trained on Cara’s. Neither dared to move.

In the absence of acting, Cara’s mind began to wander. To how the backs of Kahlan’s thighs would feel in her ungloved hands. How it would be to grip her there and pull their hips together, entwining their legs. Using them to help Kahlan rock against her, their foreheads pressed together, bothered breath on each other’s mouths. Cara wondered how that one thought could be so murderously arousing. She wondered what Kahlan was thinking. If Kahlan was thinking the same thing. If Kahlan was as wet as she was. _Spirits,_ she wanted to know that. To discover it for herself. _Spirits_ , she was despicable for wanting that. Feeling despicable did not stop her from wanting it.

The wanting and the tension were becoming unbearable. Their bodies moved in tiny ways, one swelling out and the other retreating, ebbing and flowing, all the while maintaining the maddeningly small distance dividing them. Reaching out, pulling away, switching roles. Wanting, replying, retreating. Like the force that controlled the tides. The empty space between them was cracking, alive with more than the quiet, though Cara might have been imagining it; she was _not_ imagining the scent of lavender. Kahlan’s lips were parted as she breathed. Cara could feel her heart, in a disoriented fit. This was dangerous. Risking a mortal wound. Cara cursed in the static of her mind, feeling like a frustrated adolescent, full to bursting with fruitless yearning, without any way to handle it or the language to even describe it. White knuckles, broken bones, feeding on the screeching lack of friction between them.

She would wait for Kahlan to reach out again. She needed Kahlan to touch her. She shivered. She would not touch Kahlan without being touched first. Grasping at something out of reach. Kahlan was moving. Cara’s breath stopped altogether in anticipation.

Kahlan jerked upright, turning to the edge of the bed, gripping the bedcovers as she shuddered. 

“Cara, I’m so…”

Keeper take her, so _what_?

“So tired,” she finished, head drooping, and the utter exhaustion was more than tangible in her voice. “I’m not in control like I thought I was. I’m sorry, Cara. I want you here. But I think it’s best if we...aren’t in a position to touch.”

It was shattering glass, a bucket of icy water tossed over her thirsting body in the heavy night air. 

With one steadying breath, Cara obeyed. She had no other choice.

She pulled the pillow from the bed and moved it to the floor and, lying prone there, arranged it under her cheek. She heard Kahlan give a weak sigh, nearly a whimper, before lying back down in the bed above. The sound of it cut her to the quick.

Cara closed her eyes. The carpet was no featherbed, but it was better than the dirt of the woods.

But.

“Cara?”

She tried not to groan. 

“Kahlan.”

“What are you doing?”

“ _Sleeping,_ ” she pointed out in a false whisper. She squeezed the pillow in her arms. “Trying to.”

The roll of Kahlan’s eyes was palpable even without seeing it.

“I meant, why are you on the floor.”

“I’m doing what you asked.”

Another pause. 

“There’s a chaise over there.”

How was she supposed to know that? 

She felt her way to it through the shadows and settled atop it. 

“Better?”

“Yes.” Begrudging. “Thanks.”

Soft laughter. Straight through her. Head, body, heart. 

“Sleep well, Cara.”

A pause, this one longer than those before it. 

Quietly as could be managed while still speaking out loud: 

“Goodnight, Kahlan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued reading!


	7. Crosses All Over, Heavy on Your Shoulders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I will say upfront that this chapter is oddly-paced; reason is, it's a mere fragment of the originally-intended chapter, which is almost complete and was looking to top 12K words before I chopped it up. I won't put any of you through that. With that said, know that I recognize that this chapter feels like somewhat of an awkward blip. Consider it a teasing interlude. Thanks and love you all~~

She was dropped into the middle of an ongoing scene with the sudden sensation of being adrift and off-course, her mind far off its mooring. With the sudden headrush came the uncomfortable perception that everything in this blurry place was happening out of order, out of place, out of time itself. There was plenty of inexplicable dread coursing through her, head to heart to limbs. The images were wobbly caricatures of what could have happened, should have happened. Maybe they _were_ happening, somehow, right then, alongside the rest. Reeling in the face of all that she was watching, Cara could not know.

All she could know from what she was seeing?

Their fate turned out to be very, very different in her absence. 

Everything went on without her in spectacular ways.

At the cliffs of West Granthia, The Seeker of Truth assembled the three Boxes of Orden. In that simple motion, he ascended to another plane of existence, one of unparalleled power and supreme dominion. At just the right moment, knowing when through their deep synergy, the Mother Confessor touched him with her power. Her hand at his throat tempered the power of Orden with the caress of utter devotion; the two competing magics annihilated one another, giving rise to something novel and incredible in their mutual breakdown. 

A man with the capability to bend every living creature to his will, but without the maniacal loss of his balanced mind or his soft heart. A woman, terrified of intimacy and touch since days before she could remember, able to be with the man she loved in full and complete ways. A path to a new future, a better future, that would begin with one earthshaking step.

That cloudy night, Richard Cypher subdued the tyrant Darken Rahl with a single word. Not a lick of death. No bloodshed. Not one drop.

A new dawn, seeming brighter than all those before it. No cracks between the worlds. No screelings, no banelings. Just harmony and accord, prophecy fulfilled and the book closed.

From there, the pieces fell into place so perfectly that any onlooker might think there had never been a struggle behind them in the first place. Richard Cypher learned of his true bloodline and at once became Richard Rahl. He claimed the throne of D’Hara without opposition and put a broken land back together with the promise of prosperity in rebuilding. Kahlan Amnell returned to Aydindril to restore the Rule of Law in the war-torn Midlands, welcomed by her people with righteous adoration.

Within a year, the two lovers were married in a grand celebration at the People’s Palace in full and proud view of their joyously devoted subjects. The wizard, of course, presided over the ceremony, grinning ear to ear and speaking in that quirky way everyone had come to expect and cherish. With Richard and Kahlan’s union in the eyes of the Creator came the union of two great lands: the Midlands and D’Hara, forever bonded by marriage, and, not two moons later, by the nascent promise of blood - a tiny new Rahl Confessor-child was soon on her way. A little girl with Rahl eyes, Amnell cheeks, a Zorander mind, a smile somewhere between, and the consonant power of her three gifted bloodlines twined together.

Another new era was breaking through, blinding in its golden promise.

In this flow of events, the world had righted itself.

But that wasn’t what happened. Cara knew that wasn’t what happened. She felt nauseous, suddenly. She had been there in West Granthia, and for everything that happened after. She had seen it all. She had seen none of this.

Why hadn’t she been there?

Where was she?

In a familiar flash of agony, she found herself.

She had been in this position enough times to know what to do. To grit her teeth, to not fight back against the awful pulling in her shoulders. If she did, the manacles around her wrists would just shred further into her skin, and she had already lost plenty of blood. She compelled herself to hang there, stoic, suspended over the bleeding pit as she took inventory of the damages so far. The last blow had been nothing more than a tap - something to bring her attention back to the disciplining at hand. Fading out was an affront to him. If it happened again, she knew she would receive worse.

Her left eye was swollen shut and her lower lip was split and throbbing. She tasted the metallic salt-tang of her own blood with every arduous swallow. She went to breathe deep against the pain shattering through her body, but the leather bind around her breasts restricted her ribs to a shallow half-breath. Her body swayed with the botched motion of it, ripping at the sinew of her chest and shoulders, and she tried without control to stop the momentum. She felt a fresh trickle of blood carve its way down her forearms. When she tried to grip the chains in her hands to pull herself up, to get even a second of relief, she found that she could not make a fist.

But this was nothing Cara hadn’t felt before. She would survive it, like all the other times. The trick was in the surviving.

His voice came from somewhere behind her, where he had slowly moved after jabbing her in the side with an Agiel, circling her like some high predator. She did not dare turn her head.

“I had such high hopes for you, Cara.”

His fingertips skirted across the small of her bare back - the same calm and falsely sweet sense as his voice. It made her stomach drop and head fill with dread and awe in the same muddled sensation. Yes, she had earned this. She was here for a reason. There was always a reason.

Darken Rahl moved into her vision again, his haunting form partially obscured through her bruised eye, but no less commanding of presence for the obstruction. He wore no sleeves with his red velvet doublet - no want for them in this messy work. The rippling muscles of his arm flexed and bunched with the deliberate movement of pressing the Agiel into her other side, creating symmetry in the pain. She steeled against its bite, lest she start swinging again. It was half-effective. The Lord Rahl watched as her mouth flinched with the contact, and then reached up to gently stroke it with the pad of his thumb before pressing it mercilessly into the most swollen part of her lip. She tried without success to bite down against it as his icy gray gaze captured her eyes. She held it. It would be much worse to look away. 

Looking at him like this, she could see how he and Richard resembled one another. In the brow, in the corners of the eyes.

“You might feel that you were fortunate in escaping Valeria with your life.” His fingers drew away from her mouth but stayed at her jaw, holding her chin in place, forcing her to look at him full-on. “I will make you reconsider that. After all, your insolent hesitation cost me my prize. You allowed the male Confessor-child to be drowned by his mother, and then you could not even eliminate her for it. She stood to you, Cara, and you ran. Cowardly. Spineless. Like no Mord-Sith should be, particularly one of your skills.”

Confusion gripped her, causing her to pant through the waves of stinging and nausea. That wasn’t true. This wasn’t the outcome. Was it? It was slipping through her fingers. It must have been what happened. She must have been wrong, delirious. She was certainly becoming delirious now. Her vision swam.

“It’s my fault, I suppose,” he sighed with exaggerated weariness and a lazy shake of his head. “I left your training to underlings. But someone as valuable as you deserves my personal attention.”

His words were punctuated with another thrust of the Agiel, just at the bottom of her sternum. She suppressed a violent cough as he withdrew it; he sneered at the afflicted little sound she made. 

“Still, Cara. Imagine my abject disappointment in realizing my need to choose someone of _much_ less talent than you to lead a very important mission to West Granthia, in light of your pathetic failure. You let me down in a way I couldn’t have conceived.”

She didn’t have to imagine it. She felt it. She had failed. Her wrists were going to detach. She wished they would. It would be her penance.

He cracked her in the chin with the butt of the Agiel and she let her head go with it. Her blood ran freely.

Her punishment continued. Cara knew she deserved it. But, she was raised in this hell, and she knew how to preserve herself. She centered herself, letting her eyes glaze over through the relentless blows and shocks of excruciation, forcing herself into two parts. While her body was being battered, she sent her mind elsewhere. She thought of Kahlan; Kahlan’s eyes, Kahlan’s smile, Kahlan’s cheeks. She _tried_ to think of Kahlan. The image of her was thin and nondescript. 

In this world, she realized too late, she didn’t have Kahlan. All she had was-

The thought was cut short by a crushing backhand, one that whipped her head to the side with a spray of blood and saliva.

“I know what you’re doing, Cara,” the Lord Rahl said, his airy voice cool and calm despite his rage, somehow making it all the more imposing. “You’re dividing your mind. You’re thinking about your little friend - but happy thoughts about her are not going to protect you.”

“They already have,” she heard herself croak, clinging to the flimsy ghost of Kahlan over the other of his reference. She tensed, waiting for the retribution for her audacity to speak, but it never came. Darken Rahl just stared at her, frosted pity in his gaze.

“Perhaps I have something to make you more cooperative.”

Floating in the chillingly graceful way he had, he moved away from where she hung. Across the shadowy dungeon was a pedestal with another Agiel. He grasped and lifted it, studying it with cool detachment before he described it in a vaguely-bored way. 

“This particular Agiel has been imbued with the suffering of every soul you have tortured or killed. It’s an exquisite bit of dark magic.” His eyes flickered to her and she felt a jolt of fear deep inside. “Its touch will be more painful to you than all the fires of the Underworld.”

He was approaching her with it, then, and she was filled with the sudden urge to kick away. The involuntary attempt to do so just caused her to swing heavily and awkwardly. Rahl smirked at her flailing, holding the wretched Agiel a hair’s breadth from her bare abdomen. There was nothing to break through the new panic swelling in her, no conceptions of Kahlan to magnify the better parts of her. There was just Darken Rahl and his wicked grin. Just her master doling out punishment, and her, removed from the world she thought she knew and foisted into this harrowing new place.

“I’m going to enjoy this.”

He shoved the Agiel into her stomach, and it was as though Cara had never felt anything close to agony before.

An unbroken torrent of it ravaged her, spasming her every muscle in helpless defeat, in complete inability to fight back. Every dark deed she had done before coursed through her body, locking her in, making her face it, making her feel it. It was awful. She was awful. Without awareness, she was screaming with it, head back, full lungs. The pain reached her mind. Her sense of self was beginning to slip away, replaced by the Agiel’s searing. This was who she was, who she always would be. This was her failure. She was burning alive.

Over the sound of her own screaming (why hadn’t it stopped? Why hadn’t her throat ripped open? Why hadn’t her lungs burst?), she heard her name. Two voices, calling it out, again and again in repetition. One was close to her, so close she could have reached for it and grasped it, here with her in the suffering, in the knowing of it. For a moment, she thought of it and wanted it. That familiar hand clutching hers, just like so many times before, from child to adult. It would have been a release - a way of not being alone in this.

The other voice was in a separate place altogether, plaintive in its recurrence, worried, hushed, _Kahlan’s_. Hers, the distant one, was somehow winning out over the one closer, tugging at her from across some chasm, pulling her from her own raw voice. How was her voice here? She did not know Kahlan in this world. Kahlan did not know her. 

Was it better that way? 

Cara had already seen that it was.

But Cara was not better.

Blackness, then, with a final echo of her name.

* * *

She crashed back into confused consciousness with a violent jerk, hearing the tail end of her own howling as she came to. She didn’t know where she was when her eyes snapped open, still mostly unseeing. There was a hand at the small of her back. The bleary remnant of Darken Rahl’s touch made her want to rip herself away from it; instead she found herself twisting towards and latching onto it. Both of her hands grasped at the contact through the heaving disorientation, clinging to the warm bare skin she felt further up the offered arm. Her face was wet with her own tears. Her heart wouldn’t stop. A memory of the dream-pain rippled through her, bringing a hard bodily shudder in its wake.

Kahlan encircled Cara’s trembling body with her free arm, holding her flushed cheek to her collarbone and quietly hushing her ragged panting. “ _Shhh_ , Cara, you’re alright. Quiet, _breathe_ . Please.” The Confessor’s voice was shaking too, Cara somehow noticed through the fog. “Cara, _shhh_.” Cara let go of a tiny moan on the end of a fitful breath, hating how it sounded but powerless to stop it. Her hand fumbled blindly to Kahlan’s back, fisting in the silky material of her nightclothes, drawing herself into Kahlan’s body more tightly as she came around.

Though her lungs felt raw, her breathing began to steady. She realized where she was - the world she had reentered. She was on the chaise in Kahlan’s bedchamber, half-strewn across the Confessor’s lap, face pressed to the crook of her neck. As she took another breath, the scent of Kahlan’s skin overcame her. Her eyes were swollen from the unconscious crying, but she could see that it was still mostly dark. The sun had just begun to creep up.

Another dream.

They were getting worse.

And now here she was, in a hot fuss, clutching to Kahlan like some mewling infant. Shame pierced her through the middle.

“Are you alright?” Kahlan asked in a nervous whisper as Cara finally quieted with shamed defeat.

 _You just told me I was_ , Cara wanted to snap. But she didn’t. Instead, she removed herself from Kahlan’s arms - a more difficult task than she expected.

“I’m fine.”

Her voice cracked on the second word.

She made it so they were sitting side by side on the chaise with no contact between their bodies. Kahlan challenged her by leaning in, worry lines creasing at her forehead.

“You were thrashing so much that it woke me. I mean, you were _really_ shaking.”

“Thank you for supervising rather than rousing me.” Cara hunched her shoulders and turned away. Her nightclothes were stuck to her with a sheen of sweat that had grown cold since she awakened. She shivered. “I hope I provided adequate entertainment.”

Cara felt Kahlan’s hand on her shoulder - she must have at least been feeling more rested. Cara heard the desperate frown in her voice as she spoke, and she almost felt guilty for scoffing at her. 

“No, Cara, I hated it. I’ve never seen you like that. I didn’t know what to do. And then you started crying out - you screamed yourself awake.”

“Well, I’m sorry for waking you,” Cara murmured, gruffness lingering in her already-raspy voice. “Go back to bed. I’ll go to my chambers.”

Without looking at Kahlan, she stood from the chaise. Kahlan’s hand caught her wrist; Cara thought of the manacles and cringed, _hard_. But she did not rip her hand away - just like in the dream, her preserving instincts told her to not fight back. Instead, she allowed Kahlan’s mild tug to pull her back down. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Though Cara was seated again, Kahlan did not release her wrist. “I don’t want you to be alone if something is haunting you this badly.”

“I’m said I’m _fine_ ,” Cara hissed. “It’s nothing that needs any more attention. I had a...a dream.” Being reduced to stammering made her already-quivering stomach turn with a vengeance.

“A nightmare,” Kahlan corrected, leaning closer, and Cara prayed to any listening deity that she would move away. She wanted her wrist back. Kahlan was not giving it up. “I know last night was…” Her voice faded. “I hope this has nothing to do with...”

“ _Kahlan_ ,” Cara groaned in desperation, balling her hands into fists where they rested on her thighs. It was utterly inconceivable that she could possibly bring this on herself. “No. Please, leave it alone.”

She chanced a look at Kahlan in the brief silence that followed. Her crestfallen expression was like a cracking in Cara’s ribs. 

“I don’t want to leave it alone,” she finally said, squeezing Cara’s captive wrist. “I need to know why one moment, you’re sleeping peacefully in my chambers, and the next, you’re hollering like you’re being murdered.”

“Why does it matter?” Cara said, cringing as her voice cracked again with the memory of that Agiel. “It wasn’t real.” It felt real. She shoved at the phantom pain.

“It matters to me,” Kahlan insisted. “You’re wading through all of this, too. I haven’t done enough to make sure you’re okay. Not the way you have for me. And I am so, so sorry for that.” Cara looked at her and saw the misplaced remorse clouding her eyes in the pre-dawn light. “You don’t have to make it on your own. Nothing here is going to hurt you. Please. Let me help you. Let me try.”

And Cara did not want to tell her. She wouldn’t understand, even in the slightest way. But she also did not want to lie, and she did not want Kahlan to feel culpable for anything. None of this was her fault. She had no blame to shoulder. She was who she was supposed to be.

She forced the words through a clenched jaw, feeling them tear her from this inside as she said them.

“I dreamed that I never met any of you. I saw what that world became, for you, and for Richard. It was a good world. _Whole_ and _hopeful_. Not a broken mess like this one.”

The still hush that followed was enough to ruin her. She blinked back sudden tears of anger, of revulsion, mostly at herself. 

Kahlan, at last, let go of Cara’s wrist - her hand instead traveled to her bare knee, grasping firmly, full-palmed. The skin there burned under her touch.

“But that wasn’t real, Cara,” Kahlan asserted in a whisper. Cara knew that; she had been saying that. It wasn’t real, but all of it made sense. “We’re living in what’s real, for better or for worse. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that we’re here, together, for a reason. The world you saw might not have been quite as great as it looked. This one might feel hapless, but that’s what we’re trying to change. And our will to create the future is an important one - it’s what makes the difference. Everything that has led us to here has been exactly what it should have been. Like Zedd told me once, we can’t go back. Only forward.” She paused to reach over and cradle Cara’s chin in her thumb and first finger, gently tilting her head to look into her eyes. Cara swallowed hard in the face of their blooming depth. “You’re not here for nothing, Cara. You have a part to play in whatever is coming. And I’m glad you’re here in this world with me.”

Kahlan cupped Cara’s cheek in her hand, and Cara couldn’t breathe when she was looking at her like that. So sure, so intense, the blue of her irises yanking out Cara’s tangled threads and frayed ends. Something warm surged through her, cleansing her blood of the dream, wiping its images from her mind for the length of Kahlan’s stare.

Cara was broken, and nothing could make her whole.

But in that moment, she could feel the busted pieces stirring towards falling into some semblance of a line.

For a split second, Cara saw herself reflected in Kahlan’s eyes. Completely entranced, she could only stare and nod into Kahlan’s palm.

But, of course, it couldn’t just end there.

“I understand how that dream would be distressing. But not enough to be screaming like you were. Cara, what happened?”

Feeling drunk, the words spilled out without a fight.

“I was being... _disciplined._ For failing to carry out my master’s orders.” 

Kahlan spoke without noticing what she was saying.

“Cara, you know Richard would never-”

“Kahlan,” Cara said with flat weariness, “it wasn’t _Richard_ punishing me.”

She watched as Kahlan came to the realization, and saw her heart break through her eyes.

“Oh, Cara.”

Kahlan reached for her again with both arms, drawing her in close, holding Cara’s head to her shoulder. Cara stiffened at the overwhelming change in proximity and the connection of their bodies. Her nerves ran on overload and she couldn’t stand it.

“I don’t need this,” she found herself whispering. She didn’t. She wasn’t a babe in need of overindulging.

“I know you don’t need it. You’re strong,” Kahlan replied, and Cara’s heart jumped as she swore she could feel Kahlan’s lips moving against her temple. “But I need you to know that it’s not a flaw to want it.”

She said it in a way that was dangerously close to convincing. 

But in this staggering closeness, Cara wanted familiarity. She wanted to press Kahlan back to the chaise, to straddle her hips and meld their bodies, to stop Kahlan’s platitudes with her mouth and tongue. To drown out the weakness she felt with the sound of Kahlan gasping. To turn this delicate coddling into something she knew well and could use to relate. But she knew that was not possible, here and now. So she willed herself to stay still in that new space, in Kahlan’s tight embrace. It was a different kind of discomfort from the dream. She reached for it and looked it in the eye. 

She wasn’t sure how long they remained like that, challenging herself with the tenderness, but at some point, the comfort began to flow. Like the light coming in. The softness of Kahlan’s body kept her anchored and warm. She was there. In the world. Content. Kahlan wanted her in the world. Kahlan wanted her there. She wanted to be there, with Kahlan. The drunken feeling returned, rolling over her and through her.

She shifted her body to wrap one arm around Kahlan’s back, and the other around her waist, cuddling closer to her. Kahlan sighed, and Cara might have felt her smile against her forehead. 

Without this uncomfortable sensation of collapsing, nothing new could be built. That was how it worked. Making amends with what once was. She should have known that. She knew the price of reformation. Cara closed her eyes and saw night wisps hung all around like jewels.

And though her eyes were closed against Kahlan’s neck, she could tell the sun was now broken more fully into the sky.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” she repeated, softly, with much more sincerity than the first utterance.

After one final squeeze, Kahlan sighed and relaxed her grip, giving Cara a soft smile. “Don’t apologize. In truth, it’s favorable. The Council is assembling at the second hour, and I’d like to be there and seated early. I don’t want them chatting amongst themselves about anything before I arrive.” 

She stood, then, leaving Cara on the chaise, where she stared up at the Mother Confessor with a dizzy head and heavy-lidded eyes. 

“I’d like you to come, too. We need to press them hard on Shota’s words. It’s not likely to be something they want to head.” She paused in contemplation. “You should wear your armor, if that’s a reasonable request - if it helped at all last night, it certainly will today. The dignitaries know it’s in their favor to be deferential, but the Council members might be out for blood. I can’t afford to appear timid.”

* * *

Without the infuriating priority of wrangling the split Kahlans, Cara found it much easier to observe and examine all that was around her in the Confessors’ Palace. The chambers of the Central Council of the Midlands was no exception. She had been in this cavernous hall before; she had fought ( _immensely_ well, she would add) in this cavernous hall before. But her recollection of it didn’t extend beyond blurred images and adrenaline. She remembered the echoing shouts of skirmish and the sound of her boots on the floor as she charged. She remembered the one Kahlan’s face as she held an Agiel to her forearm, while the other looked on in powerless, weeping distress. (What a strange day that had been, even in comparison to all the others.)

And, the chair. Cara remembered the First Chair, ornamented and velvet-blue, the commanding center of a semicircular dais bordered by the other councilors’ chairs. She remembered part-Kahlan sitting in it, legs crossed, eyes narrowed, postured with regal self-certainty. That image in particular was one she would not easily forget.

Now, as she followed at the swirling hem of Kahlan’s white dress, the details of the vacant Central Council’s chambers leapt out with vibrant elegance. White opal flecks in the dark-spiraled marble flooring gave the appearance of striding over an expansive night sky. Alcoves and subsidiary chambers, for which Cara could not conceive of a use besides giving the place a formidable labyrinthine appearance, extended in every direction in regular intervals as far back as she could see. Muted morning light shone through a multitude of clear glass windows positioned at the base of the domed ceiling. In its gossamery illumination, Cara noticed that the walls were decorated with ornate frescoes of heroic scenes, and whether they were true events or simply symbolic, Cara wasn’t sure. But there were seven of them, with seven women as their subjects - the seven Mother Confessors who had presided over the Midlands from the First Chair before Kahlan. The one at the far end of the room, of the last reigning Mother Confessor, looked as though it had just been completed.

One day, Kahlan’s likeness would join them. If the world went on that long. Cara’s blood jumped at the thought. _As long as the Mother Confessor’s pure heart beats_.

The painting in the arched panel directly behind the First Chair was the most intricate and striking. It depicted a broad-browed woman with long dark hair and piercing golden eyes, arms open wide in invitation, her expression an effortless mask of practiced power. A Confessor’s mask. One Kahlan had learned so well.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” As she noticed Cara’s fixation on the mural, Kahlan’s voice was quiet, but it resonated through the commodious empty space. “Magda Searus, the first Mother Confessor. The first Confessor created, in fact. A baseborn woman elevated to a high position on the Council through her scrupulous crusading for the most downtrodden nations of the Midlands. After the Great War, she was instilled with the power of Confession by the wizards of Aydindril - the same power that now flows through me - as one of two weapons created to seek out the truth.”

“And the other?” Cara asked, admittedly intrigued by this talk of weapons, and of Kahlan’s body as one. And by Kahlan’s body in general, still tipsy from the sunrise contact between them.

“The Sword of Truth.” Kahlan pointed at its depiction over Lady Searus’s left shoulder in the fresco. “She gave the blade that name before any Seeker wielded it.”

In the wake of the weapon’s mention, neither of them spoke. The sword felt very far away from them, a memory cast asunder, maybe even lost forever. Kahlan cleared her throat to break the murky silence before striding towards the First Chair, dress billowing out behind her. Her feet halted before the singular step onto the dais. Cara watched a shadow flicker across her sun-freckled face - doubt, apprehension, resent, and guilt, all in the same tightening of her brow and tiny frown. Gone as quickly as it appeared.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, because Kahlan would want to be asked, and Cara had no other way of knowing.

Kahlan spoke with a sad smile. Her fingers skirted across the sapphires arrayed across her neck, and Cara suddenly remembered the necklace. It had been her mother’s.

“I suppose it’s fair I tell you. You told me what was wrong this morning when I asked.” She crossed her arms over the lacing at her chest, biting her lip, looking at the imposing chair with fire in her eyes. “The day I was chosen as the Mother Confessor, I was told I never would be. By the reigning Mother Confessor. The woman who molded me into the Confessor I am.”

Cara just looked at her with thinly-veiled disbelief, unable to comprehend the idea of any soul looking at Kahlan and thinking _inadequate_. 

“You know the story of my sister’s and my childhood. Of our mother dying, and our wretched treatment at the hands of our father which I don’t care to relive. Then our eventual deliverance to the Valley of Thandor when I was eleven.” Cara nodded as Kahlan’s eyes slipped to her. “What I haven’t told you is that Dennee and I only spent three years there. As though three years could erase twice that of fear and cruelty.” She shook her head. “Don’t misunderstand me, the Sisters of the Light saved us. They gave us a chance at life. I owe them everything for that. But they had no conception of how to train Confessors. It’s not a flaw, it’s a part of the design - a Confessor can only be trained by other Confessors - but it was problematic nonetheless.”

“So what happened?”

“Dennee and I were brought back to Aydindril to begin our acolyteship,” Kahlan replied, staring once again at the seal of Aydindril emblazoned on the First Chair’s tall crest rail. “We were so far behind in everything. We were nearly feral, still terrified of our power and what it could do to people. What it already _had_ done to people. Dennee outright refused to speak about it, and almost to speak entirely, for nearly half a year. It was only when Serena personally took us under her wing that we began to learn and thrive.”

“Sounds like she was a valuable mentor.” Cara had had a few of those, too, in a sense.

“She truly was,” Kahlan agreed. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be the Confessor I am without her influence. Looking back, it’s plain to see that she was grooming me for this position. But with her words that day, it came crashing down. I can still hear them, sometimes, the doubt in them. How greatly disappointed in me she was, how I had abandoned my order. It still stings. I try not to let them, but they make me doubt, too.”

“You shouldn’t,” Cara assured her, surprising herself with her own speaking, actually saying the words that formed in her head instead of holding them at arm’s length. She realized she had to keep speaking and managed not to stumble. “I’m certain the other Confessors’ choice was not made without seeing the same worth in you that she did. You should trust them and honor them with your rule. Use Serena’s words of spite to fuel you.”

Kahlan’s eyes were still fixed to her seat - the fate she had been avoiding. “I can’t believe I’m going to sit there. For good.”

“So sit,” Cara declared, moving next to her. “Make yourself believe it. Claim the chair, now. You have nothing to fret over. It’s just me here.” 

At Cara’s affirmative promise, Kahlan’s eyes ignited. She turned to face her, giving Cara a single nod and that one tiny smile that was so primed to set her aflame. She slowly took the step onto the dais, turned to face the soon-to-be full seats of the councilors and petitioners, and sat in the First Chair of the Midlands. Her eyes widened like the air had been sucked out of the room. Not unsure, not regretful. Focused. Exalted. Breathtaking. The way she was meant to be. 

Cara clamped down on the madness pounding in her chest with a cool smirk and a sweeping sarcastically exaggerated bow at the waist.

“Mother Confessor.”

Kahlan quirked an eyebrow. Cara felt the subtle movement like it was from her own body.

“Rise,” Kahlan commanded with a grin to match Cara’s, eyes twinkling.

Cara did as she was ordered.

Then, silence, as they stared at one another. 

Cara felt the space between them crackling with unsublimated heat, like it had the previous night. Like it had since Aldermont, since Thorncairn. Since before she could even recognize it, maybe. It was undeniably there between them now, intensifying with every reverberation, filling Cara’s head until there was room for nothing else. Kahlan’s eyes were fixed on hers, darkened, heavy, an invitation. A reflection of this heady moment. Cara’s most indisputable weakness sitting just before her, waiting there, wanting, without even realizing what she might be waiting and wanting for. Hungry. Needing. Unarmed. 

Shota’s words came rumbling back to her. Bonded to another, dark of hair and finest of face. 

Cara stepped onto the dais to face Kahlan. The drunkenness brought on by their embrace coursed through her again with a vengeance. Time be damned, space be damned, just for this loaded moment. Too bold, she knew. Perilous. Dark like a storm, but bright like its companion lightning. And Kahlan was not shrinking or relenting, even as Cara leaned over her, placing one hand on each of the chair’s ornately-carved arms. Instead of reeling in hesitation, Cara felt Kahlan take hold of the leather strap connecting her corset to her neck guard. 

A split second of potent impasse, then, with eyes locked and breathing shallow. A moment of each daring the other to act first. Cara’s pulsing heart was in a frenzy just under Kahlan’s tight-fisted grip on her armor. She knew Kahlan’s was, too, because she could feel it somehow, and it staggered her.

Kahlan pulled her in. Cara needed to burn this into her memory. Kahlan’s eyes, Kahlan's eager hand drawing her close. Reaching her own fingers towards the roaring flame.

Cara heard her name tumbling from Kahlan’s mouth in a breathy whisper before their lips were pressed together, sighing in their rare gaps, sublimating the unspoken longing. Cara’s fingertips dug into the chair’s arms so hard she wouldn’t have been surprised if they had splintered. Kahlan’s kiss, close-eyed and keen in its inexperience, was like a rush of everything. Cara craved so much more. A reprieve from the past. A world not threatening to end. More of this and whatever it was doing to her. _More_.

With a helpless whimper, Kahlan’s mouth opened against hers for the first time, in the _smallest_ way possible. It was an undoing. Cara was ready to throw her weight into it, to take Kahlan’s face in her hands and deepen the contact. 

But before she could, the brass-handled mahogany doors produced a thunderous _bang_ as they were thrown open from the outside.


	8. Miniature Disasters and Minor Catastrophes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks for everyone's continued reading! I've had such an amazing time conversing with all of you and reliving so many fun times. As long as these two keep writing themselves, I'm on a mission to provide!
> 
> This is the second half of that "chapter" I referenced in part 7 - glad I split it up, as it would've been around 15K words otherwise!
> 
> Final note: beginning around the next chapter, there will be some POV shifting, as it's necessary for me to begin to introduce more of Kahlan's POV for later events. I'm excited for it, so if that's something you're interested in reading, there's a little sneak preview/tidbit for you!

The outcome should not have been shocking to Cara. 

It was nothing unexpected - just the way things seemed to be fated to happen for her. An instant bite of comeuppance for being too weak and willful to not kiss Kahlan as she sat in the First Chair of Aydindril. For her ridiculous audacity to even  _ just barely _ have her tongue in Kahlan’s mouth, right under the staring eyes of Magda Searus and every other past Mother damned Confessor. 

A fitting effect to stem from such a sordid cause.

A foolish decision, no matter how inconceivably alluring Kahlan looked seated there with her regal gaze and lip-bitten smirk. A foolish decision she should have been disciplined enough to shove away.

A foolish decision which she knew, deep down, that she could make again and again (and again, for good measure), any countless number of times. As long as Kahlan was gazing at her like she had been in that moment, it was an irresistible inevitability. 

Regardless, at the sound of the doors, it had to end. Cara hoped she reacted quickly enough in severing the connection, too soon. She let out a reflexive hiss of a particularly harsh curse and yanked herself away from Kahlan, all but diving to a spot behind her left shoulder. It couldn’t have looked graceful, she realized with dizzy chagrin. But then again, nothing could have been - not with her body and mind whipped away from the world of Kahlan’s lips, tossed back into this place wrought with doom and darkness, with dead masters and dead lovers and past breakings, far too soon. 

She heard Kahlan take in a sharp breath through her nose at the sudden noise, and Cara was absolutely certain the entrant was Dennee, because that was precisely the sort of thing that would happen. Dennee, stumbling in on all of this without warning. Seeing Cara leaning over Kahlan like some cold-blooded predator, the one she had experienced for herself in Valeria, taking possession of her sister’s mouth without quarter or clemency. 

What Dennee  _ wouldn’t _ have seen from where she had entered was Kahlan’s enthusiastic hold on Cara’s chest strap, bringing her in closer even when their lips had already collided, or the way her chin had inclined to meet Cara’s mouth more than fully, or the instant where her teeth had grazed Cara’s lower lip as they broke apart. The ghost feeling of it made Cara’s head spin in spite of the infuriating apprehension flooding her.

Dennee would have been blind to Kahlan kissing Cara back. Kissing Cara  _ first _ . The concept itself was ridiculous; whether it was more ridiculous to Cara than it would be to Dennee was unclear.

Cara refused to turn. Not yet. She needed to collect herself before facing Dennee’s indignation, to prepare to meet it with a cool head. To quell the senseless mixture of frustration, guilt, arousal, and maddening but overwhelming attachment smouldering under her skin. No remorse had made its way in, though. Not exactly. 

She was surprised when the coarse voice she heard was decidedly not Dennee’s.

“Kahlan!” 

Cara shook away the haze and spun back to face the door and the newcomer. The silver-haired man approached them, mottled gold-and-gray robes sweeping just above the floor as he stepped towards them briskly. Cara instantly recognized him as the wizard the false Kahlan had confessed the last time they were in this room together - the one who had made the mistake to throw a wizard’s web at Richard. She never forgot a man whose magic she captured, particularly in direct defense of any Lord Rahl.

Now, in lieu of the cold, unfeeling eyes of mindless devotion to his mistress, the wizard wore a bright smile, nearly paternal in its glimmer. He seemed surprised to see the chambers already occupied, but not surprised enough to have noticed anything untoward happening in the First Chair as he burst in. He corrected himself in his address with an idle stroke of his sparse beard. “Mother Confessor, rather.”

“Wizard Alferon,” Kahlan greeted him without missing a beat, aside from the quick waver in her voice and a wipe of her fingers over her lips. Just like that, the remnants of the kiss were gone, save for the subtle pink tint to her cheeks. She easily returned his smile. “The former, please. You’ve known me since I was just an acolyte, still playing children’s games with the others and nodding off over tomes in the Wizard’s Keep. No title is weighty enough to supersede those warm memories.”

Despite Kahlan’s insistence, he gave her a deep bow of deference. “I may be getting up in age, but I fear it’s your memory that’s fading. I knew the young Kahlan Amnell quite well, and she was never one to slack on her studies.”

Alferon’s simple comment gave rise to a vibrant image that slipped effortlessly into Cara’s mind. A barely-adolescent Kahlan, skinny and dewy-eyed with the wonderment of youth; she was hunched over a dusty book wider than her own arm span, absorbed deeply by its every candlelit word, by the discoveries she was making in its pages. The sweetness of it gave Cara an empty pang in her chest. Her experience at fourteen had been quite different. Not tender or milk-fed, no amount of taking in the ever-expanding world with wide-wondered eyes. Just strict fierceness, discipline and hard cruelty, some of it given by others, some of it offered on her very own.

She pushed away at the biting discordance, trying to keep her mind trained on some narrow middle ground between it and the eruption of lust from moments before. Either was a chasm she could be pulled too far into with one false step.

Kahaln was still smiling. She looked at home, there, enveloped in the whispers of fond anecdotes. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“Truly, Kahlan, the gladness is all mine. It’s a relief to have you here safely.” Alferon then squinted and rubbed at his hooked nose, glancing around the Council chambers as if trying to spot something hidden in the room’s numerous recesses. “It  _ is _ just the one of you this time, right?”

Kahlan chuckled, hand to her forehead. “I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of that. Yes, fortunately, just the one. Though I might regret only bringing a single body, eventually. Maybe quite soon.” She gave him a playful twitch of her eyebrows. “I also promise not to confess you this time around. I still feel abhorrent for that.”

“No need,” he promised her with a wave of his hand. “It was mostly painless, after that first moment. Like the burn in one’s chest after too much red wine. Something I’m glad to have experienced once, on a purely scholarly level, but hope to never feel again. I’ll make sure I do nothing to deserve it.” 

Alferon’s gray eyes settled on Cara, then. Somehow his pleased expression did not wilt, despite the fact that she had all but obliterated him the last time they had made eye contact. “On the topic of scholarly pursuits, I see the Mord-Sith has returned with you,” he remarked to Kahlan while still looking at Cara. It was hard not to feel uncomfortable, despite the fact Kahlan seemed to have no qualms about him. “If time and fate both allow, I’d love to have a conversation with you,” he finally addressed Cara directly. “While many are simply terrified of the Mord-Sith, I find your kind to be fascinating. Especially having felt my own magic deflected back upon myself personally. Your abilities are remarkable and I’d relish the opportunity to learn more about how they became manifest in you.”

Cara pursed her lips. She was fairly sure he didn’t want to know, but she nodded anyway, once and wordlessly, because this was one of Kahlan’s tutors and she seemed to be fond of him, so it seemed to be the correct thing to do.

“You can certainly try, Alferon,” Kahlan commented, glancing over her shoulder to look at Cara for the first time since their privacy was interrupted. The hard meeting of their eyes sent an insatiate shock through Cara’s system. Kahlan was smirking playfully, and Cara couldn’t help but notice that she was getting better and better at that particular expression every day. “Cara tends not to say much about herself. But when she does, it’s usually worth listening.”

Cara narrowed her eyes at Kahlan as she reached for the back of her neck, giving her braid a passive tug. “I say plenty.”

Kahlan let out a soft laugh, real and private, meant for Cara. Alferon looked puzzled. Kahlan changed the subject.

“Any whispers of what I can expect from the Council today?” Kahlan leaned back in the First Chair and crossed her legs, doing absolutely nothing to help Cara’s frustrated situation. Alferon shook his head, raking his fingers through his wavy gray hair.

“Somehow, just more of the same as ever. Everyone has their affairs…”

“And everyone thinks their affairs are more important than anyone else’s,” Kahlan finished for him in a half-sigh. “I thought things might be different now, after everything that’s happened, and with what’s perhaps to come. I suppose that was more of a hope than anything else.” She raised an eyebrow at Alferon. “Is there a chance you can put the room under some sleepiness spell to keep everyone tame, just for today?”

Alferon guffawed, caught off-guard by her suggestion.

“I wish I could, Kahlan. I’m not sure the Council would submit to the magic of even a Wizard of the First Order at this point, let alone a Wizard of the Second Order. They are truly chomping at the bit for even a scrap of the approval of a real and present authority - even more so now, I’m assuming, since you’ve returned. Dennee has kept them in line as best she can, but you’re the Mother Confessor. Short of confession, which would be dictatorial and reprehensible, I believe your best bet is a balanced concoction of sternness and charm.” He paused and tilted his head. “But then, if confession  _ is _ the route, it will be our secret. I won’t tell, and I don’t think your Mord-Sith would either.”

He winked. Kahlan gave him a lighthearted grimace that was probably much truer than its intended manner.

* * *

It was not much longer until the rest of the Central Council of the Midlands was assembled in the chamber, each in their full blue velvet regalia.

Cara recognized most of the members from the previous evening’s reception. A second wizard, Ranson, joined the meeting as well, along with Dennee and Fyren. Cara’s lip curled with scorn when he passed the threshold, but she managed to curb her anger when she remembered that she had no truly compelling reason to be there either other than in support of Kahlan. His face was still infuriating. 

On their walk to the chambers that morning, Kahlan had explained the structure of the Central Council to Cara. Three men and three women, elected in alternating genders every two years, were elected to represent the interests of the various sovereign provinces of the Midlands in Aydindril. Larger nations like Galea or Kelton had their own representative, while mid-sized nations like Nicobarese, Anderith, and Caddock shared a representative with one or two others of a similar size. In addition to effectively presiding over the Council, it was the Mother Confessor’s role to speak for the smallest of the nations, mostly those more minuscule peoples of the Wilds, to ensure a powerful voice to those which might otherwise be overlooked or exploited. She also had an unofficial but always-upheld final say in most matters of the Council. It was a rigid set of checks and balances which kept the Midlands working as many parts forming a cohesive whole, save for the occasional conflict or squabble.

The processes of Midlands governance were quite different from what she had witnessed in D’Hara, during the occasions in which she had been called upon to attend as part-guard, part-intimidator. She expected to see less blood here, fewer blades. Kahlan did not seem to share her optimistic outlook.

When all were seated in their proper spots and had poured water or morning wine, Kahlan opened the meeting with the customary gavel slam and checks for both quorum and unfinished business. With the formalities quickly out of the way, she addressed the group in a sure, bold voice.

“I’d like to begin by thanking all of you for your dedication to the Midlands throughout the horrors of this dark time, along with your patience and faith in me. It has been a long road to my return here. Now that I am, the time has come for us to face the rest together. The Midlands appears to be in the eye of some great storm. I am confident that we have not seen an end to the suffering.”

Then, without giving any spare second for asides, she dove into a recapitulation of the events she and Cara had experienced away from Aydindril over the past several moons. It was similar to the one she had provided for Dennee in both content and her neat economy of speaking, but much less emotionally-wrought, delivered with the mask of a Confessor instead of that of an uncertain hero and mourning lover. At her commanding tone, Cara, still standing in frozen attention a few paces behind Kahlan’s shoulder, was filled with a swell of both pride and reignited attraction. Her lips were tingling. 

As Kahlan approached the conclusion, she paused, locking eyes with each body present, in turn, to help silently convey her seriousness.

“I returned to Aydindril for three reasons.” She lifted her brow, carefully projecting her voice. “First, and simplest, because it is my duty as the Mother Confessor to be present as the face of justice and law in the Midlands. This ties into the second reason: the people of the Midlands, from every nation, every corner, and every walk of life, are unquestionably in my heart. This is my home. It is my charge -  _ our _ charge, fellow councilors - to keep them safe and secure. I have seen too much tragedy and destruction during my past year of travel to even think of stomaching any more. I need to be  _ here _ to best protect all Midlanders, in the broadest sense.”

She paused, then, for a deep breath - and probably dramatic effect, Cara thought. Every present eye was locked on Kahlan, including Cara’s own, even though Cara knew all of what she was relaying. She had lived it herself.

“The third reason is more complex,” Kahlan continued. “As I said, Cara and I were hidden in secrecy to the southeast of here, since before the solstice. Upon our reemergence, we were sought out and found by Shota, the witch woman of Agaden Reach.”

At the sound of her name, the representative from Nicobarese and Jara cursed under his breath. Kahlan ignored him.

“While any encounter with Shota is foreboding, this one seemed doubly so,” Kahlan continued, stone-faced. “She spoke a new prophecy, clouded in its revelation to her. It was obscured by something she could not identify - a disbalance between our world and the Underworld, she mentioned. Her specific words were that a tempest was approaching, on the winds, set to arrive by the equinox. She told me that I must take my rightful place in Aydindril to meet it with any hope of success.”

She was on fire, Cara thought, watching her. The passion in her voice and face was measured, but the passion in her heart was discernibly abounding. She had had nothing to worry about earlier that morning. This was the person she was meant to be, the ruler she was meant to be. Though she would admit it to nobody, it made Cara weak at the knees.

“I believe this is the most pressing issue we must address in the here and now,” Kahlan asserted, nearing her conclusion. “Reports show that we are seeing a reprieve from the baneling attacks, for reasons unknown. However, the mere fact that the reasons  _ are _ unknown should give us pause, along with the impetus to prepare for what is to come. We must prepare. We must seek answers from without and from within. Countless lives are depending upon us to do so.”

For a moment, none of the council members spoke up as the gravity of what she had said sank in.

The first one to speak was a jowly man seated on Kahlan’s right in the semicircle. Cara nearly rolled her eyes at the typicality of it all. It was a hard habit to break, but she was making progress.

“These are severe warnings you bring, Mother Confessor,” said Councilor Gyles Thurstan, appointed by Galea. “Grave words for a grave time. But I must ask, and pardon my presumption in doing so...you have clearly contended with this Shota character before, more than most of us, likely. Do you trust her words?”

“Shota is…” Kahlan paused, considering her words carefully. “A nuisance. A meddler. But while the means she might use to reach them are questionable, her intentions are noble. She’s been instrumental in saving this world in more ways than I probably even know. She seemed particularly distressed by this marked detraction from her usual clarity; she was desperate to deliver this most recent message to me, and was genuine in her speaking.” She pursed her lips in quiet thought. “She gave me vague signs to look for, heralding the truth of her indications. Admittedly, I have seen none of them yet. But her visions have been correct before. She prophesied that the Seeker would defeat Darken Rahl, but would fail in his quest to defeat the Keeper. Both of those have come to pass.”

More heavy silence.

Until Thurstan spoke up again, with less hesitance.

“So, you’re not sure.”

A blue glint in Kahlan’s eyes, then, like brandished steel.

“Are you questioning a Confessor’s ability to read the veracity in a person’s words, Councilor Thurstan?”

“Not at all, Mother Confessor,” he replied quickly, cheeks shaking as he spat the words out, holding both hands up in shocked defense at her sudden sharpness. “I’m simply probing more deeply. You said it yourself - she seemed desperate and distressed. If  _ she _ believed her words enough, you would see the truthfulness in them, too.”

Cara knew it was probably against decorum to speak out of turn, but she did not particularly care. 

“The witch woman,” she piped up from behind Kahlan’s shoulder, to the momentary confusion of all seated, “knows things she has no business knowing.”  _ Cara Mason _ , her voice whispered in Cara’s memory, and Cara hated it. She used the boiling within to glare sternly out at the anxious-eyed council, settling for a bit longer on Thurstan than the others. “Her words, and those of the Mother Confessor, would be wisely heeded.”

With a final flick of her eyebrows, she resumed her silent wide stance, hands clasped behind her back.

Thurstan swallowed before speaking again. 

“Very well. Convincing arguments,” he conceded with an uncomfortable cough, dabbing at the sweat that had dewed on his forehead. “But, I must address something of which you could not have been aware in your absence, Mother Confessor. With no Confessor in Aydindril after the D’Haran purge, prior to the Second Confessor joining us, the Council decided it best to turn any dealings with magic over to our wizards.” He motioned to Alferon and Ranson. “Leave it to the experts, you understand. I have full faith that they will get to the bottom of these warnings from the witch woman of Agaden Reach.” He spread his fleshy palms on the desk in front of his chair. “We have other matters we’d like to finally discuss in your long-awaited presence.”

Kahlan’s eyes darkened at the impertinence, but she left it unaddressed for the moment. “Such as?”

“Matters to the east, Mother Confessor. If the intersection of every rumor about Richard Cypher, or Richard Rahl, we have heard is true - and now that you’ve spoken it plainly, the rumor of the Seeker’s death is no longer a rumor at all - it can only be assumed that the kingdom of D’Hara is in shambles. There is no longer a legitimate heir to the Rahl bloodline. A power vacuum like that is sure to have decimated their coherence. With the recent lack of baneling attacks here in Aydindril, it’s of my belief that now is our time to strike at them and move towards a full annexation.”

“ _ What _ ?” Kahlan tried very hard not to splutter at the few nods of solidarity she saw before her. “With all you’ve endured here in the city, and all you have just heard me recount,  _ this _ is your first priority?”

One of the women, Ellen Bowe of Mardovia and Caddock, voiced her concurrence. “Mother Confessor, speaking from the lands closest to the fallen boundary, we have a real chance for a lasting peace and prosperity in union and dominion if we mobilize quickly.”

“At the price of another war with D’Hara. A wounded and likely aggressive D’Hara,” Kahlan pointed out, index finger in the air, earning a few agreeing nods of her own, “along with the necessity of a split force,  _ and _ more bodies for the Keeper.”

“Mother Confessor, pardon again, but we can’t even be sure the Keeper is still concerned with us.”

“Councilor Thurstan, you’re stomping on thin ice right now.”

“I’m simply asking you to consider using-”

Another councilman, representing Anderith and a few other small lands to the southwest, raised his hand and spoke out over his compatriot. “To avoid miring ourselves in a premature and unyielding back and forth about the D’Haran problem, I’ll raise a second and much more unanimous matter of precedence: the line of Confessors.” He nodded at Kahlan. “Mother Confessor, with you here and healthy, thank the Spirits, it’s of the utmost importance that you take a mate and begin rebuilding what has been so devastatingly lost.”

Kahlan’s shoulders bristled at the plainspoken suggestion, but she let none of it cross her face. Cara swallowed hard, surprised to find an anxious lump in her throat when she did. The morning had quickly begun an unexpected spiral.   
  


Dennee raised her voice in defense of her sister. “Councilor Nielan, this is Kahlan’s second day back in Aydindril. The matter of the Confessor bloodline is a pressing one, but surely there needs to be some period of transition and stabilization before this is even considered.”

“Exactly!” the Keltan councilor, Mara Parre, exclaimed. She was perceptibly the youngest of the six, yet still a few years Kahlan and Cara’s senior. Her honey-blonde ringlet curls shook under her blue velvet cap with the vehemence of her speech. “The Mother Confessor has been here for all of, what, five minutes? And you’re already dead-set on putting a pup in her. Utterly deplorable behavior.”

“Deplorable?! You would do well to curb your tongue. I’m merely pointing out a problem that must be solved, and can be solved easily and quickly, unlike this self-serving thirst for D’Haran land.”

“ _ Easily _ and  _ quickly _ ? Tell that to the Mother Confessor!” Parre threw up her hands in exasperation. “We don’t have a single suitable mate for  _ any _ Confessor in the cells. Let alone the Mother Confessor. Unless you want her child to be fathered by a goat thief or the most recent in the line of town flashers! Or are you  _ personally _ volunteering? Use some damned forethought and decorum in your speaking, Nielan, because I certainly don’t hear a crumb of either coming from your mouth.”

The Anderith councilman mumbled something that, while indistinguishable, was decidedly not a concession.

“Are we fresh out of Dragon Corps prisoners?” Thurstan asked with a squint.

“None but the deserters and the turncoats, steeped in their dishonor,” Fyren replied after a glance to Dennee for approval. “Cowards at best, unworthy of Confessor progeny. The rest were executed on my order.”

“All the more reason to look to D’Hara,” Thurstan hinted in a rankling singsong that made Cara want to punch him in the flapping jaw. “We’d undoubtedly stumble upon a mate for the Mother Confessor. Probably couldn’t stand in one place and swing a stick without hitting at least two.”

Mara Parre looked as though she was about to flip her desk. Bowe quietly cleared her throat to calm her. 

From there, the meeting continued to devolve into discordant claims and non sequiturs, borne of each representative’s anguished need for a heard voice after so long a pause. Speaking out of turn and without conventionality became the normal process for the next however-long - if _he_ was speaking, so would _she_. Anything to receive even a passing glance for their various causes. The clamor grew and shifted in a way that made it hard for even Cara’s quick perception to stay with the tempo.

“Mother Confessor, you would shudder to hear the disgusting things some of these Nicobaresean open-air preachers are saying about the Andolians. I fear it might be causing unrest.”

“Well, they do have terrifying eyes. And considering the fact that they’re thieves...”

“And the same coming from a representative to this council, now! It sickens me. Something needs to be done about this vitriol.”

“An  _ actually  _ important topic of discussion, Mother Confessor, is the question of the Keltan crown and its mode of succession. With Prince Fyren out of contention, and no other members of the royal family left, many are beginning to question the authority of the Duke and Duchess. They’re calling for the Council to intervene.”

“On a note quite unrelated to my first, there is some unfortunate novel venereal disease running rampant in Anderith. Sovereign Chanboor is requesting more healers and apprentices to mitigate the crisis.”

“Nielan, I actually want to revisit your first point, as I feel that I agree. The Confessor bloodline is of paramount importance. Perhaps we need to make difficult decisions easier with an incentive for-”

“The Mother Confessor is  _ not _ a broodmare! Neither is the Second Confessor, for that matter.”

“Well, the Second Confessor has already begun to embrace that particular fraction of her duty.”

“Leading - indirectly, I’ll give - to our new troubles in Kelton.”

“We  _ must  _ move towards a swift annexation of D’Hara with a powerful, united army. Who knows what this kind of power vacuum this could give rise to?”

“On what nation’s coin?”

“With what nation’s  _ men _ ?”

“Well, I’m no expert, but-”

“Oh, shut it, Thurstan, that’s always plain to see.”

The sound of the gavel cracking violently off of the arm of the First Chair finally put an effective halt to the semi-polite ruckus. 

“ _ Enough _ ,” Kahlan ordered, letting just enough seething into her voice. She gave all in the room a hard stare, chin inclined and eyes cold as winter moonlight, until she had their full attention and silence. When she spoke again, her words were measured with a measured austerity that scorched Cara’s ears in the most interesting way. “It is abundantly clear that the Council has been suffering from a lack of authority for too long, and has made concessions for it in my absence. While this is my fault, I will absolutely  _ not _ tolerate a breakdown of process like the one I just saw in these chambers.”

A few of the councilors rounded their shoulders, at least silent admitting their shame in the face of Kahlan’s unwavering rebuke. The others ranged in reaction from confused to equally fuming.

Her gaze of collected indignation fell to Council Thurstan first. 

“We are the Central Council of the Midlands. We will see to the safety and security of our own before anything else. This issue is tabled until further notice, or I receive a truly convincing plan of operation. We should not and will not look to D’Hara until our own issues are settled. Evidently, there are plenty of them,” she pointed out with a feigned shrug. The Galean councilor opened his mouth once, twice without a sound before sinking back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Kahlan then turned to Councilor Nielan of Anderith.

“Councilor Nielan, I appreciate your concern for my bloodline. Truly, I do.” Her tone made it sound like she was anything but appreciative. Cara heard a new hint of bitterness in Kahlan’s throat, one she had not heard before - one laced with discomfort and fear. “I want to put your noble fears and hand-wringing to rest. I know my duty, and I understand the grave situation in which the structure of our governing has found itself. Sleep well tonight knowing that when a worthy person emerges, I  _ will _ take him as a mate. But not a single moment before.”

He gave her a sheepish shrug of his knobby shoulders, quieted in the wake of her biting promise. Cara noticed Dennee glance up at her sister with an expression of desolate pity, and was fairly sure Kahlan wanted none of it. 

“As for the rest, have it written up in a detailed report and delivered to my chambers for my personal review and address. It’s apparent to me that productive conversations are out of the question for the day.” She slammed the gavel one last time, its exacting sound reverberating like the crack of a whip through the pin drop silent chambers. “We will adjourn here. Go about your business and reflect upon how you will each personally make sure this meeting is  _ never _ repeated.”

Kahlan remained seated, gazing out with a hardened mask as the Council members filtered out of the chambers, murmuring and whispering among themselves.

While Kahlan watched them take their leave, Cara watched Kahlan.

After the hall was completely empty, with even Dennee gone, Cara saw the veneer crack. Kahlan squinted out at the empty chairs with dismay before her expression devolved into a tight blink, eyes squeezed shut against whatever was roiling up inside of her. She took in and let out a long breath that shook on both ends, an attempt to dissipate the bodily tension. 

Cara should have quietly reached for her shoulder. She was  _ going to _ quietly reach for her shoulder. But her arm suddenly felt too heavy to do it quickly, and by the time she gathered the strength to move it, the moment had passed. Kahlan’s eyes had reopened, as impenetrable and unreadable as Cara was sure her own were to Kahlan.

But despite the moment no longer feeling right, Cara gave herself an internal snarl and reached out anyway, ripping against the invisible restraints binding her hands behind her back.

Her leather-gloved hand settled on Kahlan’s shoulder with more softness than the mustering of the action required. 

Kahlan did not look back at her as she reached across her body with the other arm, barely grazing Cara’s knuckles with just her fingertips. 

Cara could have collapsed at the touch.

Maybe they both could have.

And maybe, just in that moment, that could have been alright. 

Neither did. Neither would. It wasn’t how they were forged, wasn’t how they were molded. But the possibility of it and its accompanying quiet grace hovered over them nonetheless.

* * *

When Kahlan floated the idea of splitting a rack of lamb at Ambrosio’s Tavern that evening, Cara did not hesitate to accept. She was starving; she hadn’t eaten much that day. It would also be an opportunity to be alone with Kahlan. To speak more freely about any sort of thing, to get a hint of how she was after the day’s events - Cara had only glimpsed the Confessor’s mask on her face since they left the Central Council chambers. 

Mostly, though, because she was  _ starving _ .

And for some elusive reason, Kahlan must have really wanted to go with her, because though Cara knew how often and highly she (and Zedd, too, in the past) had spoken of Ambrosio’s, Cara knew that lamb was not among Kahlan’s favored foods. How she remembered that or even knew in the first place, Cara was unsure. It was just there in her mind when Kahlan asked her.

Kahlan smiled at her acceptance, one that actually reached her eyes with its natural shine, the first Cara had seen since early that morning. 

“I’m glad you want to join me,” she had said with that quietly lilting tone. “Consider it a repayment for my escapades last time. I know Zedd wouldn’t stop talking about how the food was the only enjoyable part of our brief stopover here. You seemed to be a little envious of the experience.”

Cara opened her mouth to protest, but closed it and shrugged instead. It would have been too obtuse a lie to claim otherwise. She would be covetous of any fine piece of meat prepared by someone with any scrap of culinary skill over the several failed attempts at corn cakes she ( _ and _ others among the four, not just her, mind) had put together.

The sun was just beginning to set, blessing the evening with just a tiny reprieve from the steaming summer heat, as they departed from the Confessors’ Palace. The two Home Guard soldiers accompanying them helped cut through the throngs of evening-time strollers. Some seemed to just be milling about their relaxed business with tranquil expressions; most were taking advantage of the extended daylight to examine and hem and haw over the wares of the dozens of merchants lining the street down which they were headed. The vendors hawked their goods from stalls or baskets or store windows, calling out prices over the street’s din in grating song before quietly haggling with interested buyers in a whisper. Fish, cheese, salt and spices, butchery, wine, ale, grains, breads, pies, other confections, any of a thousand desires could apparently be found here in the crowding, even after the siege. If Thorncairn had been an assault on Cara’s senses after so long in solitude, the Stentor Street market in Aydindril market was on another level entirely. As she half-followed, half-guarded at Kahlan’s rear, she considered how she would have to get used to this amount of hustle and bustle again, and quickly, if she was going to be an effective protector. 

Cara would also have to get used to the idea of no longer having to keep Kahlan’s identity concealed. To not feel a jolt of apprehension every time she heard someone refer to Kahlan by her title, or bowed to her in the street, or when she chose to wear one of her white dresses - of which the Mother Confessor apparently had several, the lot of them somehow and rapidly tailored to Kahlan’s body since they had arrived. For their outing tonight, she wore a simpler one than she usually wore - unadorned and unassuming with a square neckline, but no less pristine white or immediately recognizable. As they carved their way to Ambrosio’s, men, women, and children alike would stop, their eyes like saucers, elbowing their more heedless companions before bowing deeply to her. She would nod back at as many as she could with a small smile, one that Cara noticed was much warmer than any she had given the council members. When a bolder citizen would call out their well wishes and relief for her safe return after their prostration, she would beam at them and reply, probably making their evening, if not their whole season. 

It seemed to just be an effect Kahlan’s presence and recognition had on people.

Cara, too, had chosen to dress down her leathers and braid that evening. It was still hot, and the restrictiveness of her corset would not have been conducive to the amount of lamb she planned to eat at Ambrosio’s. Kahlan had smirked when she saw her - not biting or teasing, just an unbridled smile with nowhere familiar to settle.

“That’s the Cara I know best,” she had murmured, and Cara just squinted at her instead of asking her what she meant or why there had to be a comment in the first place.

The walking and bowing ( _ lots _ of bowing) did not go on for very long until they were standing outside of Ambrosio’s. Its facade looked like any of the many taverns Cara had visited over the course of her memory. Stepping across the threshold, however, was a different story - Cara’s boots rapped against the increasingly-familiar feeling of marble flooring, and she hid her surprise at the look of the place. A vast room with gorgeous off-white floors and walls and elegantly simple decorative touches in muted-torchlight colors made the place look more like a room in the Confessors’ Palace than a tavern room. The patrons were dignified and refined, chatting and chortling quietly at their tables, with no visibly-drunk person tipping off of their bench, spewing up their most recent pint on their way to the floor. At a first cursory scan, Cara noticed a few familiar faces from the reception the previous evening, including the Duke and Duchess Lumholtz. Kahlan attended to them at about the same time, and Cara saw her roll her eyes in the most subtle fashion. Cara found herself suddenly and momentarily proud.

While the design and decoration was out of the ordinary, the aroma of delectable spices and cooking meat saturating the air was familiar and enticing. Cara’s mouth watered and her stomach churned around itself with a vengeance. She was  _ starving. _

With a handful more nods and bows scattered here and there, they headed directly in the direction of the galley, to a private dining alcove reserved for the Mother Confessor. When they sat, the Home Guard soldiers all but disappeared, following the protocol of staying out of sight but always vigilant. Kahlan poured herself and Cara each a goblet of water from the pre-prepared pitcher and smiled at her.

“What do you think of it?”

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Cara admitted with a shrug. She sipped her water. “Smells delicious, though.” It did.

“It will be,” Kahlan promised. “Ambrosio’s has been a staple destination in Aydindril for four generations now. Nico is the fourth of his family to own and operate the tavern. His great-grandfather built it from the ground up. A number of years ago, the Galean representative at the time was so enamored with the place that he personally put up the coin for a full remodel of the tavern. I think it’s great. A stylized experience with the same old quaint family recipes, passed from hand to hand for a hundred years. Plus, at the end of each day, all of the scraps and extra preparations go to the hungriest and neediest citizens of Aydindril - nothing wasted. Great food and big hearts. It’s no wonder why Zedd was a regular patron for so many years, don’t you think?”

Cara could not agree or disagree with the wizard’s proclivities before they were interrupted by a tall, thin man with tanned skin, dark tight-curled hair and a thin mustache to match. He grinned at Kahlan before offering her a deep bow, gently taking her right hand to kiss her knuckles. 

“The Mother Confessor says too many kind things about my tavern,” Nico Ambrosio commented as he straightened. His voice was colored with some heavy accent Cara couldn’t place. “Too much more and I am going to start thinking she has a soft place for me, too, in her heart.”

Cara nearly leapt out of her seat with a growl at the man’s impudence, but Kahlan touched her clenched fist before she did, laughing softly and heartily.

“No, Cara. Nico is just an old friend. He’s been the proprietor since before I was a girl.”

“So many nameday celebrations prepared for so many Confessors, young and old alike, and I can still remember each and every one of them,” Nico agreed with a nod. “And Kahlan is certainly not one to forget. I am gladdened by your safe return, young one. Though I guess I should not call you that anymore for fear of being placed in a stockade.”

Kahlan waved her hand dismissively. “Call me whatever you want, Nico. I’ll acquit you of any charges.”

“Again, being much too kind to me.” He paused, then, rubbing his smooth chin in thought as a hesitant reluctant clouded his brown eyes. “Speaking of old friends. Zeddicus. Is he...?” His voice trailed off before he could ask what he really wanted to. 

Kahlan let out a pained sigh, shaking her head with a sympathetic expression of shared grief for the longtime tavern patron. “Nico, I’m so sorry.”

He understood without further comment, sudden dolor etched onto his fine features. “Ever the wisest, ever the hero. A treasure among men. We drink to him and eat for him tonight, then,” he affirmed with a resolute nod. “I shall apologize in advance, Kahlan, for any delay in your dining this evening. One of my serving wenches is recovering from illness, and the other has picked up her slack. She is a sharp girl, but has been inundated by the demands of some of the other patrons - for instance, she has been back in the scullery for ten minutes now on some quest for Duchess Lumholtz.” A wordless look of understanding passed between him and Kahlan. “I shall alert her to your presence and have her out for your drink and any other desire, immediately.”

“Don’t fluster anyone on our account,” Kahlan commanded. “There’s no rush; I’ve been rushing all day. I’ll appreciate the chance to unwind.”

Ambrosio grinned. “Such perpetual understanding kindness. It is not a wonder to me that you were chosen for your eminent position.”

He took his leave, then, leaving Cara and Kahlan in the alcove. 

Kahlan’s eyes fluttered closed as she rolled her shoulders back, groaning with exhausted relief, distracting Cara from her growling stomach for just long enough. After another gulp of water, she raised her eyebrows at Cara. “I know you’re very hungry and probably not in the mood to talk, but…” She raised an eyebrow. “I was hoping we could speak about today.”

Cara wasn’t that rude. She could converse with a screamingly empty belly. She could do plenty. She would prove it. 

“The meeting? Those people were insufferable. But you handled it well,” Cara reassured her with a scowl for the behavior she had witnessed. “Though next time, I suggest a show of force and brutality first. Make an example out of the worst of them. It worked in D’Hara. I can assist, if you need.”

Kahlan’s face screwed up at the unexpected answer.

“Cara. First of all, no, I won’t be doing that,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. Cara clicked her tongue and shrugged - whatever she wanted. “Second of all, I wasn’t talking about the meeting. I meant, before.”

Cara straightened right up in her chair. The Confessor’s eyes flashed with an uncommon blue bashfulness at Cara’s pinpointing of her meaning. Cara’s lips burned, and she saw Kahlan’s cheeks flush.

“What is there to discuss?” Cara’s tongue was a block of wood. She didn’t have a clue she was saying. At least there were words coming out of her. 

“I guess I’m not really even sure what to say,” she breathed, smiling either shyly or nervously or in plain discomfort, or all three at once - Cara had no hope of knowing, with how her own hammering pulse had crawled into her throat. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Cara winced, but made sure it didn’t show. When she spoke, it was quiet, flat, kept away from the self-directed venom she tasted in her mouth.

“So are you sorry we-”

“No.” Kahlan interrupted with a fervent shake of her head. “No, Cara, it’s not that. I promise. I wanted it. Very much,” she admitted in a hushed voice. “You were standing there in front of me, so close, and I wanted it. To feel you. To keep feeling connected to you. That wasn’t a mistake.” She looked down at the base of her water goblet, fingering its edges. “But these urges...I don’t know what to make of them. They’re...they’re confusing, Cara. For so  _ many _ different reasons that it makes my head spin. There’s so much in there. I’ve never felt anything like it for…”

Her voice tapered off with an upward glance and a tiny shudder of eye contact with Cara. There were plenty of never-fors that could have finished her thought. Never for anyone but Richard. Never for anyone while a dead soulmate hung over her head. Never for a Mord-Sith. Never for a Mord-Sith who once killed her sister. 

But all of those various strings were contained in one overarching web, which Cara offered, feeling explicitly dismantled.

“For a woman?”

Kahlan pulled her lower lip between her teeth and blushed, and Cara could have lit up with spontaneous flames right in that damned tavern.

“Never for many people in general,” Kahlan’s voice trembling partway through. “But, yes. You’re correct. It’s not something that fazes you, I know. And it shouldn’t for me either. I mean, you’re downright arresting to look at. You’re strong, and smart, and loyal, and so many other things that can make a person feel this way. But it’s all new for me. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want any of this to be unfair to you or to hurt you, after all of this.”

Bombarded by the unforeseen and ridiculously undeserved compliments one after another, Cara was quick to lie.

“We don’t have to talk about it like this if you’re unsure. Better if we don't,” she remarked in a low, even tone. “I’m not hurting. Please. You should know how much it takes to hurt me.”

Kahlan seemed at least somewhat satisfied with her reply. Cara curdled inside.

What happened next should not have been shocking to Cara. An instant bit of comeuppance for her dishonesty; something to make her eat her words before they even had a chance to sink in.

“Mother Confessor, please pardon the wait. I am fully at your beck and call for the rest of the evening. Nothing could fulfill me more than the chance to serve you.”

The voice pealing out from somewhere behind her obliterated every other sound in the tavern. The hot blood in Cara’s veins turned to solid ice in a mere instant. She was assaulted by so many sensations at once that she could have been ripped limb from limb. A throbbing down her spine. Brightness cut short. A knuckle pressed hard into a fresh bruise. Tiny fingers laced together, a strong grip in the face of abject horror. Those same hands, older, needing, palming at her yearning naked skin, touching and being touched by another for the first time. The nervous but eager mouth accompanying them. That budding desire. Bodies wrapped around each other, again and again and again, familiar, trusted, routine. Possession, release. Violent reprieve from agony. Perfumed oil. Blood, hidden gentleness.

A wave of stomach-sickness rolling deep through her. 

She tried to swallow but her throat was closed. 

She did not dare to turn at the pause in the greeting. She knew what she would see if she did - what she would see in a too-short moment regardless of motion. A year of estrangement, crossed over itself an entire world away. An impossibility that Cara had been an idiot to consider impossible. Another grievous and ridiculous oversight.

The voice’s owner took quick notice, too. 

Of course she did. 

“ _ And  _ a friend, it seems.”

And there she was, standing by the table between her and Kahlan.

For all of the apparent commotion in the tavern, the serving girl did not look frazzled as she brushed her hands on her burgundy dress. She gazed down at them with gleaming blue eyes and a pleasant smile patterned across her high cheekbones. Looking at them. Looking at Cara. Smirking at Cara, driving right through her. Making the world lurch. 

Cara’s head was a tumult of a thousand questions, but her strangled throat could only carry a name. 

“Dahlia.”

Dahlia spoke like butter wouldn’t melt in her pretty mouth. 

“It’s been a long year, Cara. And a long path here. So much change. I’m sure you can relate.” She brushed a lock of wheat-blonde hair back over her shoulder, and Cara felt the motion in her middle. “I heard a rumor among the later patrons last night that the Mother Confessor had come back to Aydindril with a Mord-Sith in tow. I shouldn’t be surprised to see that  _ you _ were the topic of their gossip. Though, last I heard, you had some plot to take over D’Hara for yourself.”

A year ago, a lifetime ago, her response to Dahlia’s careful thinly-derisive banter would have been very different. A smoldering scowl, then overtaking her teasing mouth with her own, quieting her with lips and tongue and teeth.

Now, though, just silence and clenched fists hidden beneath the table. And a subtle glare at Dahlia’s red-painted lips.

And Kahlan, Spirits help her, was still just  _ smiling _ , bemused and oblivious, but also obviously having to  _ know _ from the shroud obscuring this serving wench’s soul from her scrutiny. She asked regardless, because she was Kahlan and Kahlan asked questions when silence was sometimes better.

“You know each other?”

Dahlia, shapely brows raised, looked to Cara, who wanted to scream. She grunted out the expected explanation instead.

“We served together.” She finally swallowed. Kahlan didn’t require an explanation for that much, at least. “For many years.”

“Oh, Cara. Don’t just dwell on all the unpleasantness.” Dahlia’s striking gaze shifted to Kahlan, and she had the gall to speak for Cara. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Even before we were Mord-Sith, we were schoolmates.”

“You’re from Stowecroft too,” Kahlan made the connection, raising her eyebrows at the happenstance. Dahlia nodded. Cara was just frozen in sick and stupid disbelief, concealed by a calculated deadpan face and locked jaw.

“It’s...odd, to be back in the Midlands,” Dahlia said. “But when we were cast out of the temples, we had to make our way somewhere. To scramble for a new life. Difficult times after the war. Those of us lucky enough to survive, I suppose I should say. I was one of them. I was fortunate to make it to the Midlands, and to receive the welcome I did at this tavern. I thank the Spirits for it every day.” She laughed at herself and held up her hands. “But this is no time or place for speaking of such things. I won’t interrupt your dining beyond this. I simply wanted to be sure that you were aware of my presence.”

The words had so many meanings that Cara couldn’t begin to count them.

Dahlia must have heard the thought, because her gaze snapped to Cara again.

“Though, Cara, it makes me glad to have someone here who shares my experience. We should spend some time...reconnecting. I have a feeling we both need a friend and confidant in this place.”

With both Dahlia’s and Kahlan’s eyes burning into her with excited expectation, Cara could only blink twice, stiff-necked, and then give a pathetic half-nod.

“I’ll return shortly with your food and drink,” Dahlia promised with a cloying smile. “Still the driest red wine possible, Cara? Don’t answer, I already know.”

She sauntered away without another word, but with a lingering glance at Cara, leaving the tension circling all around her, soaking her with cold sweat. Leaving a new kind of rift in the already-desecrated ground. 

Another ghost to wrestle. Except this ghost wasn’t a ghost at all - she was flesh, pale and smooth and warm and still so alluring. And she was right there, within reach.

Another damnable truth to keep from Kahlan, who was somehow none the wiser about absolutely anything at all.

How was it not screaming from the heat being thrown from her skin as it broiled her inside and out?

The tavern had smelled incredible. Cara had been starving. 

Now, as she chewed, the lamb felt like dry-rotted leather in her mouth. 

She forced herself to make a show of it anyway, removing her gloves to eat and swallowing bite after bite, sucking the grease from her fingers. Her faked satisfaction made Kahlan content and that was worth the awful nausea it caused. 


	9. I'm Worn by the War in Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This one here took me a little longer to tease out. I want to say upfront that I'm not as used to Kahlan's voice. Hopefully it's not too clunky, but if it is, consider it to be me adjusting. I promise to keep working at it!
> 
> ~~Also can I tag just this chapter individually as "where's the Tylenol" because oof~~
> 
> Also also, as always, [here's that playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6YsyUiWu35n9C4FJHjtSv5?si=p8_jysGXQ8WX3E090cZdFA)

Kahlan let out a surprised gasp of pain and knew at once that there was going to be blood.

Sure enough, when she turned her hand to inspect the damage, there was angry redness pooling at the edge of the deceivingly-thin cut along the first knuckle joint of her index finger, just below the nail. She frowned at it before bringing the knuckle to her mouth, calming the sting where the parchment had sliced her.

The hint of metal-taste on her tongue made her think, once again, about the ridiculousness of it all. How such a tiny and harmless nick could smart as much as it just had. How a blamed piece of a parchment had drawn blood on her, in the sheer absence of the enemy weapons she had come to expect.

She rubbed the side of her right thigh over her dress with her other palm, pressing it against the scarred reminder of the particularly brutal wound she had earned from a D’Haran sword - the one that required cautery by Cara’s Agiel, what felt like ages ago. Touching it called on the memory: Cara’s eyes, wild and morbidly amused, fixed on hers through the shrieking pain. How the tendons in her neck felt like they might snap with all of her straining to keep from giving her the satisfaction of crying out. The livid smoke from her own flesh wisping into the air around them, and the throttling nausea it brought. Cara’s expanding grin cutting through the haze as the agony ended, mouthing a barbed but genuine (in her way) compliment; the world contracting to a single pinpoint, right at Cara’s mouth, before everything went completely black.

That had been the first time they had been completely alone together, separated from Richard and Zedd. Just the two of them, navigating the unsure space between outright hostility and tentative accord, sometimes teetering part of the way toward cautious friendship.

Lately, most of the wounds had been bloodless - but no less hellish for its lack. She grimaced. There was so much that still brought in a raw ache to think about - the stinging at her knuckle was gone, quick as it had come on.

Much had changed in the half-year since that cloudy night: higher stakes, even more dire questions. A shattered heart, smashed like brittle glass, and a once-future whisked away in heavy numb blackness. Time passing, a shifting bond and undeniably deepening feelings, still blurry and daunting to consider. Now, hesitant guilt and hectic tension and subtle sweetness, all wrapped together in the rush of _something_ that ravaged her body every time Cara flashed her that piercing blue-green gaze.

And, of course, there was her unremitting duty, standing in the way of every single element.

The meandering thoughts somehow led Kahlan back to the matter at hand, and the most ridiculous realization of them all: they had arrived at Aydindril over a week ago, and she had barely scratched the surface of all that had been left for her here. The servants had hauled heap after heap of unfinished business to her chambers following the first disastrous Central Council meeting. Both old-but-unanswered and new requests to address, unopened correspondence from every corner of the Midlands, and an endless stack of treasury and agriculture reports requiring her seal and signature had taken over her waking hours for days. She swore she was beginning to go cross-eyed, evidenced by the pounding ache in her head and how every scrawled character on every page was looking vaguely off-kilter.

While some of the backlogged discourse _did_ require her personal attention and seal, an almost-equal amount did not. With a light huff through her nose, she wondered what Dennee had even been doing at all in her absence.

Upon a quick reconsideration, Kahlan knew _exactly_ what Dennee had been doing. The answer was right under her dress.

She sighed again.

She couldn’t blame her. As of late, Kahlan, too, had been somewhat distracted. _Somewhat_ was putting it lightly. Her head was swarming.

A third sigh, thicker at the edges, dragging too much in and out with it.

Spirits, she had to focus and get through at least a few more of these dossiers before she broke for her midday meal. She rubbed her eyes and reached for her morning tea, the cup still full from earlier; she cringed as she took a huge gulp, not realizing it had gone tepid. Had it been that long since the maidservant had brought it to her? It was easy to lose track of time here.

Kahlan forced her attention back to the parchment that had assailed her. She rolled her eyes when she saw the contributor: the seal of Anderith on the header, and the scrawled name of Nielan on the strapline. Of course _his_ missive would be the one to bleed her. Her ears boiled with the echo of his words at the meeting, and how he managed to reduce the gravity of her conceiving and bearing a child with near-flippancy. It made her stomach turn over itself, sour and overwhelmed.

She wasn’t ready for that.

She would have to be, likely sooner than later. She had sworn her readiness to the whole council, if only to shut them up without a mutiny.

But she wasn’t ready.

There were ample reasons why she wasn’t ready.

There was plenty she was not ready to confront.

But she was going to have to try.

She wanted to stamp her disapproval on the document without even reading it, all spite and ember. She would never do that, of course, but it was vindicating to imagine. Luckily, the document’s contents had nothing to do with the line of Confessors, she gathered as she squinted at the careful marks.

_...humbly seek the Mother Confessor’s approval for the elevation of one Bertrand Chamboor from the rank of Minister of Culture to Sovereign of Anderith…_

Kahlan raked her fingers through her hair as she read. Judging by Nielan’s comments at the meeting, they had apparently not waited for her sanction to make the change. What was the point of even asking, then, if they were just going to go through with it rogue? No matter. No need or extra space for frustration, at this point. Kahlan stamped the page with the seal of Aydindril and looped her name at the approval space at the end of the petition. It still felt clumsy - it had been ages since she had wielded a quill. She placed the parchment in the completed stack, mounting one more victory against the opposite pile threatening to drown her.

She used momentum to maintain her concentration, snatching up the next document and reading it quickly.

_...request the Council’s authorization for a modest detachment of Nicobarese troops - two hundred men under the command of Lord General Tobias Brogan - to barrack at the outskirts of the city limits…_

It was not an unusual request; most of the other nations of the Midlands Alliance kept a contingency at Aydindril. A half-fist more was nothing. She had met this Brogan the other evening, and he seemed to be at least somewhat supportive of the higher cause. Besides, if it was anything like the previous inquiry, the mentioned troops had probably already been stationed there for weeks. Stamp, signature, pile, sigh.

She should have just reached for the next one, should have kept with the flow. But she didn’t.

Not when Shota’s voice had crept into her thoughts again.

A tempest coming, and only Kahlan’s eyes on the horizon. All the rest, willful oblivion.

It filled her with a whole new sort of dread.

Instead of moving on to the next report, she pulled out a blank scrap of parchment and dipped her quill. Willing her hand to stop shaking, she began to write out the signs of Shota’s warning. Not that she could forget them, even if she tried - they were already engraved in her mind, from the moment they were spoken.

_Two hearts: triplicate divide, twice over._

_Flower: burgundy. Elegance, past union, betrayal._

_Touch: jagged white; burning flesh._

_Pain in duty and duty in pain._

The final note gave Kahlan the most pause; was she already feeling that? It was too vague. She could only imagine how Shota felt, with everything once clear now muddled.

The act of writing them had helped to dissipate the uncertain worry, at least in the smallest way, channeling the unremitting energy from head to hand. She set the scrap at the edge of her writing desk just as two hard knocks rattled the door to her solar.

“Enter,” she called out in response, raising her attention to the racket’s source. Her posted guard pulled the heavy door open and stood at attention, fist over heart.

“The Mord-Sith, here at your summons.”

Kahlan heard a frustrated sigh that could only have belonged to Cara erupt from the corridor. There wasn’t time for another thought before Cara was brushing past him without an invitation, hard-jawed, eyes smoldering with explosive frustration. Somehow it made Kahlan feel calmer and brighter.

“Don’t they know yet that I have a name?” she demanded as she approached Kahlan, throwing her arms back toward the stunned attendant, and Kahlan was struck as always by the way she used her body and moved through space - so measured, but so emphatic. Kahlan felt the motion in her throat and knees, a fluttering in both. Kahlan got her legs under her in spite of it, and rose from the desk to meet her.

“Mistress...Cara?” the guard offered, weakly, halfway through his motion to leave.

Cara did not turn to look at him, but just closed her eyes with an under-the-breath grumble of something that sounded similar to _much better_. The door closed.

Cara’s hands settled on her hips as she looked Kahlan up and down before that sea-green gaze settled on Kahlan’s, penetrating, heated, and there was that aching pull in Kahlan’s lower belly. She swallowed as the contemplative scrutiny went on longer than it probably had to.

“You look tired,” Cara finally decided, deadpan.

And Kahlan had to laugh, feeling the morning’s headache and irritation melt away with the comforting normalcy of her candor. She was also likely not incorrect. Kahlan _felt_ tired.

“Well, we can’t all be getting our beauty sleep,” Kahlan sighed, smirking back. “Some of us are inundated with work.”

Cara scoffed at the bait. “Please, Mother Confessor. I don’t need _beauty sleep_.”

Another true statement. Kahlan glanced down for just a split second before remembering herself.

“Then how have you kept yourself occupied while I’ve been cooped up in my chambers, buried in the burdens of all the Midlands?”

“Training,” Cara replied with a noncommittal shrug.

“Training?”

“Training.” Like it was the most obvious thing anyone had ever uttered.

“Just training. All by yourself?”

Another shrug. “Yes. I’ve gotten soft. It needs to be mitigated.”

Not quite as true, Kahlan thought. She was as lean and strapping as ever. Kahlan’s eyes drifted to the tight curve of Cara’s bicep, rippling under her leathers as she folded her arms across her chest. To the convex, teardrop swell of her powerful thighs. To her stomach, and the concealed sinew lines that Kahlan knew were there because she had seen them, plenty of times. She had felt them. Violently wrestling in that airless tomb at Dunshire. Plummeting out of the Con Dar, clinging to her, numb, nerves bare and raw. Cara’s compact muscularity pressed against her, fully, unabashedly, solid yet molding to her own body, strewn together on the ground in the grotto at Aldermont. Their lips, working together, boldly proving that their only-whispered connection was tangible. _I feel you - in every place, all of the time._ Cara’s fingers and their tangling in her hair, keeping Kahlan close, wanting her there.

Kahlan had wanted that, too. She wanted it now, their mouths, their bodies, their shared breath. Another throb wracked her, bringing on a famished surge of everything she did not know how to handle. Cara’s presence was riveting, disarming. Kahlan wanted to moan as her power pulsated through the distracted weakness like the liquid straining at the rim of a too-full cup. A single jostle and it would spill right over. She held her breath and tensed her core, bringing herself under control in the way she had learned as a child, until the convulsive sensation was gone, composure yanked back from the cliff’s edge.

The quiet must have lingered for longer than Kahlan realized, because Cara spoke again, eyes darting to each corner of the room as she did, effortfully looking anywhere but at Kahlan’s.

“You wanted to see me?”

She said it quietly, as a question. As though the idea was illogical - like she was shocked, even after all this time, that Kahlan had requested her presence. Her eyes twitched, not quite blinking, and her brow furrowed as she waited for an answer. The uncertainty was barely veiled, and Kahlan had been an audience to it more than enough to identify it. Heart sore with it, she made herself smile softly and nod at her.

“Why wouldn’t I want to?” She laced multiple meanings into her reply. Challenging her subtly, reaching out in a way that would hopefully not cause her to retreat. She seemed to balk at the words, but did not shut off entirely. Kahlan continued. “Yes, I do. I have a proposition which you might find interesting. Come, sit with me.” She motioned toward the long mahogany table at the other side of the spacious room. Cara’s lip flinched before she turned on her heel to meet Kahlan’s demand.

Kahlan followed and took a seat at the head of the table. Cara flanked her at the corner seat, and the impatience buzzing around and through her was nearly audible. It was so like her, the eagerness to please, endearing in her way. And Kahlan would get to the point. Eventually.

Because despite Cara’s apparent clamor to just get on with it, Kahlan welcomed the requested respite of her presence. She wanted to enjoy it for just a few moments without flitting onto the next necessary thing.

They hadn’t spent much time together in the past few days, and had slept apart from each other for the last two nights, each in their own chambers, with Kahlan’s work spilling nearly into the small hours. That first night, exhausted and ready to collapse, she felt a pang of indiscernible emptiness before she realized how long it had been since they had spent a full night without the other there. Rothenberg, maybe. Months. It felt like longer.

And Kahlan had missed her. She missed Cara’s body and its calming density next to her, anchoring her to realness. How sweetly and heavily she slept (the one awful nightmare notwithstanding) when their immediate safety was more guaranteed. The ridiculous amount of heat she managed to throw off. She missed the unspoken but undeniable refuge in shared experience.

Kahlan wanted her there all the time.

Her own nightmares had continued to diminish over time, but having Cara by her side was another level of soothing she hadn’t grasped - until she wasn’t there.

And, fittingly, this had all begun with a dream.

To be fair, there were hints, perhaps, before. The real beginning of the shift was loose and indistinct. Maybe it was a culmination of seemingly-small happenings that weaved together over time, forming something more significant and staggering than the sum of its parts. There were probably more than Kahlan could recognize. Those first remorseful tears at Stowecroft, or that first true show of dismal fear at her impending lapse of the Keeper’s bargain. Her strained willingness to endure Zedd’s pink-frilled caper to rescue her from that Rothenberg dungeon. Fighting side by side, nearly constantly. Coming around from that dark-magic spider bite, worried eyes and tight mouth hovering over her unfocused vision, head in her lap, leather-gloved hand firm on her shoulder. The tomb, undoubtedly, and its delirious show of a crumbling facade and naked fragments of a soul - the first admission of fond sentiments flying off and hitting the thinning air with clumsy abandon. Separating from the others, and the small moments of learning how to be together in quiet solitude, how to cope, how to comfort without outwardly comforting, how to share space more immediately. Those bygone shreds of experience rushed through her all at once with the sensation of careening backward without looking. They were ephemeral and quick, but still felt close.

The most marked recasting of it all, though, was absolutely the dream. Before Richard’s end - before she knew of it, at least. Unexplainable in the moment, as dreams usually were. Kahlan had forgotten the setting, but couldn’t forget the sensation of Cara boldly embracing her from behind, gentle but present, hands tracing down Kahlan’s arms to hold her wrist. Cara’s breath on the back of her neck, warmth amplifying in the contact between their bodies. In that unconscious, weightless space, Kahlan was so overwhelmed by the shocking softness that she heard herself exhale Cara’s name, voice tender, grateful, seeping with blindsided affection. When she slipped back into lucidity, her eyes opened to see Cara sitting by her side, gazing out into the near-dawn; her beating heart lurched in a brand new way.

And it had terrified her.

But the sudden dream-borne stirring was quickly eclipsed by all of the awfulness that revealed itself shortly after.

Cara had kept Richard’s death from her. Kahlan wished she wouldn’t have. But she also understood why she did. Cara had lost him, too.

But it was those same hands that held her in her dream that had kept her here - that had grabbed her by the collar and yanked her from the void created by Richard’s loss with her silent but careful constancy. Always there, always watching. The reason they moved forward.

Half a year ago, when Kahlan imagined the future, it came to her in reflections of Richard’s brave and kind heart, his sharp and strategic mind, his boyish grin. In the bare hearts they shared. The most important person in her life, the light in everything dark. But their loving union was marked with an immutable humming threat of the next complication, of the next impending separation or impediment. It was a natural consequence of a deep bond with the Seeker of Truth, a gifted Rahl heir, all of the incredible things Richard was. Both waiting for and living through an anguishing inevitability had splintered her at its end. It was the way of things.

Kahlan should have known. She did know. She chose it anyway, in spite of knowing.

It was different, with Cara. Not simple to describe. She was brooding chaos. She was reserved and aggressive and all stubbornness. A whirlwind, inside and out. But she was also resolute and steadfast to the bone. She had proven that. She was all heart, and even if she didn’t see it, Kahlan did. She was nothing to question, no more checking in dark corners - a place for momentary ease of mind. Instead of Kahlan wondering when she would have to be without, Cara was the distinct feeling that she wouldn’t have to be.

With the rest of the future in flux, Kahlan had cleaved to her steadiness. And history was still managing to repeat, the world in circles. Another uncharted space to feel through and puzzle out. And Cara felt it too, that _something_. The weight between them, yoked with bewilderment and silent yearning, the newness and the exhilaration. It was everywhere, in everything, in the question of what it was or what it could even be in the state of everything else around them.

Kahlan could not know.

But she knew she _wanted_. That much was clear in the grotto at Aldermont, in the lightning that passed between them, in the gasping kiss that seared Kahlan straight to center. In spite of her duty, in spite of what was to come, in spite of the fact that those feelings were still something to fear. Denying that want before had only bruised her, more than she could fathom. Even if it was doomed to end, again, in one way or another. And Cara had said she was not hurt by the slowness. Everything about it was delicate and tenuous, but _there_. Alive. With two beating hearts and heavy hints in every glance.

“I’ve missed being with you.”

Kahlan didn’t expect to hear herself on the other side of her thoughts. Her voice was throatier and needier than she would have intended, but it was honest.

Cara fidgeted in the high-backed chair, leathers creaking, looking like a shy child for an instant before hardening again. Her gaze ran along the smooth grain of the table, avoiding Kahlan’s. “You’ve been busy working,” she rehashed Kahlan’s earlier comment. A pause. A thought, a decision, a steeling swallow, all distinct beats. “I’ve missed you, too.” Just a quick mumbled addition, but dripping with reluctant honesty. She drummed her fingertips on the surface before her for want of something to do with her hands. Kahlan thought about covering them with her own, stilling the motion and cooling the agitation, but that probably would have been a step too far. She gave her best reassuring smile instead. Cara glanced up and, seeing it, let her tense shoulders go slack. “Is that what you demanded my presence to tell me?”

Kahlan laughed. “No. No, that’s not it. It was the first thing I thought of when I saw you, and I wanted you to know.” Cara just blinked a few times, holding her gaze. Kahlan continued. “I’m sorry. I’ll get on with it.” She produced one of her approved appeals and set it in front of Cara. “I wanted to discuss this proposal I received yesterday evening,” she said, tapping it gently.

Cara, appearing vaguely dubious, began to read as Kahlan elaborated.

“For all of his obstinacy, Councilor Thurstan seems to have contributed at least one good idea. His general point outlined here stands to reason: the Midlands Alliance is currently at a stark military disadvantage. The nations’ forces have been ravaged by separate but sustained conflicts with D’Hara and the baneling scourge. Their remnants are overwhelmingly composed of young and inexperienced recruits who have stepped up after the heavy losses. They need strong and swift cultivation,” Kahlan paraphrased the document. “Thurstan is suggesting that, for time and consistency’s sake, a large unit of troops amalgamated from across the Midlands be trained here, in Aydindril, under one command. Though his ultimate goal is still _definitely_ occupation of D’Hara, I have to agree with his thought process. The Midlands are not fit to take on any enemy as things stand now.”

Cara pursed her lips as she caught up to Kahlan’s explanation. “It makes sense,” she agreed, raising an eyebrow. “But I don’t see what any of it has to do with me.”

Kahlan pointed to a section further down the page. “Thurstan consulted with Councilor Parre before submitting this, and they have requested that Prince Fyren be placed in head command of the united regiment. While he’s been confessed, and he committed abhorrent treason, he’s also a tactical genius. Before he usurped the First Chair, he drove the D’Haran occupants from both Kelton and Aydindril. He’s valuable.” She shrugged. “In light of my disdain for his past actions, as a compromise, I added a few other names to the list of captains and contributors. Trusted, proven individuals, with specific skills to aid Prince Fyren. One of the names is yours.”

Cara saw it written just as Kahlan said it. She nearly snapped her neck to gape at Kahlan, expression contorting in that familiar way where her eyes seemed to widen dramatically without actually changing in size. Kahlan marvelled at her face and wondered if Cara knew just how expressive she was while believing she wasn’t really expressing anything at all.

But Kahlan was grateful for the transparency, whether intended or accidental. No matter how long she had known Cara, or how many words or thoughts or feelings they could ever share, no matter how Kahlan had seen Cara change and rearrange over half a year, Kahlan would never be able to see through her the way she saw through everyone else. The smokescreen over her thoughts, obscured by the torment she had faced, both haunted Kahlan and broke her heart. She had to rely on words and body language to tease her out. Over time, she had become quite familiar with both.

She was also receiving both in that very moment.

“ _My_ name?” Cara snarled, nearly laughing in bitter shock. “Why me? Is that something that can even be sanctioned without your council, let alone the damned people of the Midlands in general, revolting? And, really, Kahlan, being subordinate to _him_?” Kahlan didn’t need the ability to read her to see the word _bastard_ , along with a few other choice expletives, flash behind her incredulous eyes at the end of her outburst. Her ire was so routine and comforting and even adorable, but Kahlan knew it would be a very bad idea to smile or chuckle.

“You’re one of the most skilled close-range and hand-to-hand fighters I’ve ever known, Cara.” Kahlan leaned toward her and was rewarded with a wrinkled brow. “We’ll need small-group archery training, too. Your proficiency, strength, and discipline would be a crucial contribution. I dislike Fyren as much as you do, believe me, but I also have the feeling that he would respect you as a confederate. You and Dennee can both keep him in check for me.”

Cara, of course, rolled her eyes and took in a deep breath.

“Kahlan…”

It was that voice. The thin, afflicted one, where it sounded almost like she had only let half the air out of her lungs as she spoke. The rest came out as a huffing sigh as she tossed her head. Kahlan cut her protest short.

“I’ll redact your name if you’re truly opposed,” Kahlan promised. “But I wouldn’t have written it in the first place if I wasn’t confident in the idea. You’ve protected me so well, Cara. You’re still doing so. But I can’t keep you to myself.” This time, Kahlan did reach for Cara’s hand, fingertips skirting over her knuckles. Cara flinched at the unexpected touch but did not pull away. Her eyes rose to meet Kahlan’s glance, and the traces of uncertainty in them knocked Kahlan in the ribs. Again there was that riotous urge to pull her in close and bid it away with her body, her mouth, with that far measure of clumsy and unpracticed intimacy.

Not now. As much as she wanted it, she held back. Words would have to do.

“I’ve told you, you have so much more to give, Cara. As yourself. Not as a servant to any Rahl.” She squeezed Cara’s hand to punctuate the sentence, and to keep herself from giving in to what she craved more. “I want you to be a part of things here, in my home. Aydindril is your home now, too. It would mean a lot to me if you agreed.”

Cara needed esteem in Aydindril. She needed esteem in herself. She deserved both. She deserved so much.

She deserved so much more than Kahlan could give her.

The abrupt thought struck her unheralded and oddly, sidelong. It only lingered for a moment before it was gone, leaving a brief singe in its wake. Kahlan swallowed against it.

Cara was still staring at her - narrowed eyes, veiled timidity, that vessel in her forehead visible in the throes of her hard consideration. Even frustrated, especially frustrated, she was stunning. Kahlan’s mouth was dry; her hands were made of pins and needles.

“You’re certain about this.” Guarded voice. Stony, unreadable. A question that wasn’t a question; a hidden bid for reassurance. Kahlan would offer just that, and mean it.

“I am, Cara.” Kahlan was. She wanted this. There was so much she wanted.

Cara finally let out an aggravated sigh of attrition. “ _Fine_.” She rolled her eyes again, and Kahlan heard the hidden _don’t make me regret this_ almost as clearly as the gruff outward response. “But if it goes awry, I’ll take no part of the blame.”

“I’m so glad.” Kahlan beamed. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Cara arched one eyebrow.

“And since I’ll be employed in your service, we’ll need to further discuss my terms and fees. I’ll warn you that I’m not an easy negotiator. I have certain expectations.”

Taken by surprise at the swift tone shift, Kahlan laughed out loud at the comment, all the rigidity melting with her sarcasm. Cara glared.

“You’re amused, but I’m being serious. I hope you can afford me.”

But then she was smirking, and finally outright smiling, that rare true smile with teeth and shining eyes, all of the concealed doubt of worth, the near-exultant self-vitriol, and aggrandized defense dissipating for just a beat. For just long enough. The winsome smile that Kahlan felt everywhere in her body, all at once. Like sun-touch, subtle on her skin, but also a violent bursting of the world.

And then it was gone, raised chin and cutting gaze regaining their dominion.

“Is that all?”

Kahlan considered the question. Regarding official matters, the answer was yes.

But there was something else she felt compelled to address. Another quiet subject to broach.

“Just something small,” Kahlan said, “and suggested not from a position of authority, but as someone who cares for you deeply.” Cara was paying attention, then. “I think you should call on your friend.”

Silence.

The smile was decidedly gone.

“What?”

Cara’s voice was like lead, eyes vacant but focused, and Kahlan once again cursed the fact that she couldn’t distinguish what they carried. This time, her fingers did not drum idly; her hands on the table clenched into fists and twitched with strain - it was a habit Kahlan had observed, and it had taken her far too long to recognize that she was grasping at phantom Agiels, a desperate attempt to bury whatever discomfort was inside. Caught nonplussed, Kahlan went on, with much less vigor in her words.

“The serving girl from Ambrosio’s. What was her name? Dahlia.”

“I don’t need to do that.” Cara’s adamant reply came before Kahlan could even get the name out. And she shouldn’t have pressed the issue, but by the time she realized that fact, she was already speaking without hope of stopping.

“It would be good for you to have someone here besides me.”

Cara looked like she wanted to blow up and disappear entirely into the chair’s upholstery at the same time.

“Kahlan,” she grunted, speaking through her teeth, “you don’t understand.”

Apparently not. But she wanted to.

“What don’t I understand?” she probed, earning a stifled groan. “Let me know what I’m missing here.” _Let me in_ , but safer.

“You’re not missing anything,” Cara bristled. “It’s not…” A pause, a loss for words. She sucked her teeth. Her eyes were wide and serious when they met Kahan’s. Her voice was cold. “Is it an order?”

The implication split Kahlan in two.

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes in gentle, but wounded, rebuke. “I don’t give you orders, Cara. I just said that.”

“But?”

Through the tension, she was impressed that Cara could detect the _but_ hovering around what she had said.

“But it would gladden me to see you reach out. We all need connections with others, as many as we can manage. You need something to do other than...train, alone.”

The quiet that followed was leaden. Cara stared straight ahead, mouth tight, eyes dark with something she couldn’t identify. Kahlan was clueless. Hopefully, she wouldn’t always be. When Cara eventually spoke, she was much quieter than Kahlan expected. Resigned. Not the eruption she expected.

“I will consider it.”

Good enough.

“Thank you,” Kahlan breathed. “Above everything, I just want you to be happy here.”

“I understand.” Still flat. “Is that all, now?”

“That’s all.”

Kahlan’s intentions were spoken plainly. Cara’s, not as much. One day they would be, Kahlan hoped. Wanted. Everything in its time. Cara was being patient with her. She needed to do the same.

“Then I should go.” Cara stood in one slow, deliberate motion. “I know you’re very busy.”

Without a moment of hesitant second-guessing, Kahlan reached out and caught Cara’s wrist before she could take a step, thumb over her pulse point.

“Wait.”

Cara looked at where Kahlan had grasped her, where they were connected, and then at Kahlan’s face, flummoxed, guard reestablished.

Kahlan pulled her in with gentle insistence, bringing their bodies flush, circling Cara’s waist with both arms and resting her cheek on her shoulder. The contact was not staggering, not intimidating, but felt just right, and Cara only stiffened for a surprised second before she let her body go loose. Kahlan breathed deep, taking in Cara’s scent, fresh cedarwood and clean leather and just a hint of lavender clinging to her skin. She longed to memorize it.

In the embrace, they were back in Dunshire, the first time, the first raw words laid bare. _It’s a hard world_. There were more of them, now, ponderous, resonant, looming all around and between them, screaming their existence but relegated to quivering quiet.

And now in this mess, unlike then, the outcome of all things was on Kahlan. On the both of them. There was no journey book to implore for aid, no Sword of Truth on its way to cut through all of the dangerous questions. Just air running out. And it hurt. Like being cast into oblivion, her lungs howling. But it was the way of things, now. It was on them.

Kahlan said what she felt.

“Thank you,” she whispered, letting her eyes flutter closed.

“For what?” Cara rasped with genuine confusion, arms still hanging at her sides, lips all but brushing Kahlan’s ear as she spoke. Kahlan shivered but kept her composure.

“For being here with me.”

After one more long, slow breath, expanding chest tight against Cara’s frame, Kahlan felt one of Cara’s palms glide firmly across the small of her back. Kahlan hugged her tighter; Cara’s other hand joined, fingers gripping and curling where they held her.

They released one another without another word, both delaying the action, neither wanting to be culpable in the severing.

An empty pang tore at Kahlan as she watched Cara leave her chambers. She acknowledged it, and then let it move through and past her. She could control her emotions.

Kahlan wanted Cara there, all the time. Defenses wiped away, smiling like that.

But nothing was that profoundly simple.

* * *

Kahlan did not have very long to dwell on any of it. Shortly after Cara’s departure, Dennee arrived at the Mother Confessor’s chambers, bubbling with excitement for their lunch plans.

While the greeting embrace Kahlan and Dennee shared was much more exuberant than the one she had given Cara, the intimacy was different in type, not degree. She kissed Dennee’s temple and held her snug, unaccustomed to her sister’s new body after a lifetime of another, but still comforted by the fact that it was undeniably her. Her soul radiated through, regardless of its vessel.

Dennee let out an exaggerated groan as Kahlan crushed her. “I’m so glad we’re finally doing this, Kahlan. You haven’t given yourself a moment of rest yet.”

Kahlan chuckled, letting her go at last. “I think you’re just glad to be out from under all the paperwork, little sister. Though it seems you left the Shadrin’s share of it for me.”

“Not untrue,” Dennee admitted with a shrug, absently cradling the swell of her belly. “But I do appreciate this. The nursemaid and I were just having the most difficult time putting Edrand down for his midday nap. I thought he’d never let me leave.”

“You could have brought him,” Kahlan pointed out, leading her to the table. “My nephew is a welcome guest.”

“And he would have been so sweet here with his aunt. But then a _terror_ by dinner time, without his sleep. The joy of motherhood.” Dennee gave her a tortured smile, shaking her head, as she sat. “I welcome the break.”

“I’ll admit that I’m pleased that it’s just two of us.” Kahlan “It’s rare to see you alone these days. How is my good friend Prince Fyren occupying himself?”

“Who knows. He’s off somewhere with his sword. _Training_ ,” she replied. “I could...” A beat. Dennee squinted at her. “You’re really smiling. Did I say something funny?”

Kahlan forced her mouth into as straight of a line as she could. “What would be funny?” she wondered, and then evaded. “You were saying?”

Dennee looked somewhat unconvinced, but went on with her interrupted thought. “I could say the same, about _you_ rarely being alone.” A sudden severity precipitated across her fine features. “The Mord-Sith always seems to be with you.”

Kahlan blinked with an unassuming smile, measuring her words carefully. “Cara is nothing if not dependable.” She made sure to emphasize her name in the slightest way. “She takes her duty very seriously. I could stand to learn from her.”

With a small, disdainful hum, Dennee raised her eyebrows and looked askance at the idea. “You know I don’t like that she’s here, Kahlan. To put it politely.” Her tone had a chill to it that Kahlan hoped wasn’t signalling the beginnings of a debate. Fortunately, Dennee agreed. “But I don’t want to put my displeasure between us. I’m just looking to spend time with you, in the brief absence of anything gloomy, for both our sakes.”

Kahlan, softening, nodded.

The servants arrived with trays of food and also impeccable timing, putting a welcome gap in the conversation. Mistress Sanderholt, the palace’s head cook, personally accompanied the scullions to the Mother Confessor’s chambers. Despite her age, she was as lively as ever, filling the huge room with her vivacious voice and hearty laughter, crooning about how happy she was to have both Amnell sisters in the palace again and how beautiful they had grown since they were girls. Kahlan and Dennee basked in the genial sentiments, neither having the heart to address the muddle around Dennee’s inconsistent appearance. Sanderholt pinched their cheeks fondly with thin fingers, just as she had done when they were younger; she was probably the only member of the serving staff bold enough to even imagine doing so. The doting gesture, along with the cook’s loving preparation of Kahlan’s favorite meal - hot spice soup with freshly-baked brown bread - was comforting enough to bring a brief reprieve from the unease churning in her mind. Despite the darkness, this was home. And she had so many people who cared about her.

Relishing in the happy feelings, Kahlan asked Dennee about her pregnancy.

“All is well, according to the midwife,” Dennee told her, reflecting the easy grin. “I had some sickness early on, but it seems to have settled. It’s much easier to be excited, now.”

Kahlan nodded her contentment at hearing so. She busied herself with dipping a hunk of bread in the steaming bowl before her, then, pursing her lips. “Councilor Nielan wants to get me like you, and soon.” She popped the morsel into her mouth.

“He was pretty forthright, wasn’t he?” Dennee agreed. “I feel terrible that he put you in that position the other morning. But…” And here her voice trailed off, testing the silence, and Kahlan knew what was coming. “He does have a point, Kahlan. It’s no small matter. And for all the unreliability of our situation, it’s something that you directly control.”

Kahlan set down her spoon with a weary sigh, running her hand through her hair. Because Dennee wasn’t wrong, and it felt more damaging to hear it coming from her sister instead of a tactless politician. But even if it wasn’t wrong, it was a gross oversimplification. Or maybe Kahlan herself was the one looking at it too simply. It was unclear. She only knew that she had allowed her hopes to range too far.

“I know, Dennee. I hear you. I hear everyone,” she promised. “I’m just having trouble accepting the fact that my child will be fathered by a war criminal, or worse. I can’t stand the thought of my daughters growing up-”

“The way we did?” Dennee broke in, softly.

Kahlan bit her lip past the feeling of rope chafing her tiny wrists and the devastating sound of her little sister crying. “The way we did.” It was all that needed to be said. “If anything ever happened to me - like mama - I couldn’t leave them with someone who could want to bring them harm.” Or who was afraid of them, horrified of them, the way Frederick had revealed. It was almost worse. Her chest ached. “I know the way it’s done is the only proper and just way.” Honorable men didn’t deserve to have their life stolen. “It’s only...the more I’ve seen, and the more I’ve lived, the more difficult the idea’s become to tolerate.”

“Because of Richard?”

Dennee’s voice was still so quiet.

And Kahlan couldn’t lie to her. Not about this, not about anything.

“Because of Richard.” That far-fetched dream; his loving eyes. An impossibility from the beginning, an even more vehement impossibility now. She felt hollow, then, another piece of her ripped away without mercy.

Silence, then, as the food went forgotten for a long moment. Finally, Dennee spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Kahlan.” She reached across the table for her sister’s hand. “It has to be so painful. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No.” Kahlan shook her head, forcing a sad smile. “No, it’s alright. It does hurt, so much. And I miss him, every day.” She did. His ghost was an impossible burden. It was bound to be. “But the weight of everything is on me now. I have to be ready to meet it. And that includes facing the things that are painful.” Plenty of people knew plenty more pain than she did.

“I know you will. You were always so strong. And you still are.” Dennee nodded and squeezed Kahlan’s hand, returning to her lunch. “For what it’s worth, going through with it isn’t as awful as you might think, looking from the other side. Fyren has been a good mate.”

“You sound almost fond of him,” Kahlan remarked, brow knitting. Dennee scoffed.

“He was a brute,” she asserted. “He was dishonorable in what he did. But he’s been a blessing through all of this. He’s confessed, but even so, the steadiness is welcome after everything. He’s been wonderful to me, as he’s compelled to be, but even more wonderful to Edrand.”

Kahlan’s mind was at once filled with star-shaped bites of apple, and strong hands lifting her to share them with the horses. The wispy memories weren’t bad by themselves, without all the darkness that followed. Pleasant, even. Something else she could want, if it wasn’t for everything else.

Dennee was looking at her differently, then, eyes glinting with a strange light, and Kahlan couldn’t place it until she spoke. “And he’s very _attentive_. In every way.”

“ _Spirits_ , Dennee,” Kahlan choked, leaning back in her seat, reeling at the sudden boldness of her implication.

“Kahlan,” Dennee groaned right back at her, pleading. “I know it’s not fitting to discuss, but it’s also so hard _not_ to discuss. If I can’t talk about it with my sister, then who else?”

“And I am that person for you, always,” Kahlan replied, resolutely at first but then with another shudder. “I’m happy for you. I’m glad it’s...it’s been enjoyable. But please, use discretion in your details and descriptions? There are things I’d rather not know.”

Dennee burst into laughter, and it was too much for Kahlan to not laugh right with her, _hard_ , both of them incredulous and ridiculous and breathless. It wasn’t even that funny. But neither could stop. The energy flowing between them, the playfulness stifled for too long, pouring forth with abandon, gushing out with a vengeance. Like two little girls again. Kahlan pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the aftershocks and grinning against her palm at the bright hilarity she saw in Dennee’s eyes - all the joy in the world that needed to be preserved.

“I promise to spare you,” Dennee reassured her, mostly under control, but words still quivering. “I’ll just say that there are some things even confession can’t give a man and, good spirits help me for saying it, Fyren has it.”

“ _Stop_.”

“I’m sure your mate will also be eager to please.”

It was the final three words that did it. An innocuous phrase that penetrated her mind and then dragged out not-so-innocuous images. The ones that Kahlan didn’t know how to regard and certainly was not equipped to manage, but had been all but devouring her with might and main, almost any time she allowed her mind to wander. The grotto, again, but not as it had happened. Wilder, riper, skin to skin. Fervent, dizzy contact and salty shared sweat. The tingling pressure of Cara, fully on top of her. Edging toward overstimulation. Keen, ragged breathing, escaping from both of them. Gripping and clawing at Cara’s musclebound back as Cara’s mouth, curved into a wicked smirk, scorched her greedy skin. Cara’s hands roaming everywhere and anywhere her mouth wasn’t, Cara’s hands all over, Cara’s hand slipping between her- _oh_.

Kahlan closed off her mind, banishing the phantom lips and fingers before Dennee saw them written all across her face. The effort of willing them away ripped at her. And while the vision was gone, the longing remained; she couldn’t dispel the rapid pulse or desperate, deep throbbing. Her shaking breath was blessedly silent as she changed the subject.

“It’s glad to hear that Fyren is worth his salt.” Her words were clear and steady, despite the hidden pitching. Dennee had noticed nothing. “It makes me feel better about granting him command of Thurstan’s proposed novice recruit regiment. I convinced Cara to lend her skills, too, just before you came.”

She didn’t mean to say it; she shouldn’t have said it. She just said it, without thinking, because it had made her happy. Dennee’s face dropped into something dangerously close to a glare - overtly displeased, but still clutching at the threads of civility.

“I thought we weren’t bringing her up.”

And Kahlan didn’t hold her tongue, because that was not what she had agreed to.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, Dennee, but she’s important to me.” Kahlan spoke with calm but firm insistence, eyes fixed on her little sister. “She’s done unspeakable things, and yes, thoughts of them haunt me. But I’m not sure you understand the wretched life she’s had. I didn’t, either, until I had it spelled out for me.” That solitary tear - Kahlan’s heart broke again. “You and I knew suffering as children, like no children should. But we were delivered from ours. And do you remember how we were when we were brought to the Valley of Thandor?”

Kahlan watched for the reaction, the recollection. They came as anticipated.

“We were wild. We were terrified. We didn’t know how to react to even the smallest show of kindness, so we rejected all of them with vehemence. But we learned, eventually,” Kahlan reminded her regardless. “Cara was _nine_ years old when she had her life taken from her. Nine years old and tortured, hardened, made to believe there wasn’t a soul who loved her. And it doesn’t stop when Mord-Sith are broken, Dennee. I won’t tell you how they’re punished. How they’re kept the way they are. Seventeen years stand between us and our anguish. Her? Not even a full one. Sometimes it seems she doesn’t believe she’s been freed at all. But she’s learning. She’s trying.”

Dennee’s mouth opened, and whether it was in understanding or protest, Kahlan could not know, because she held up a finger to quiet her.

“I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it until you believe me. Cara is not the monster she once was. She’s more than what she's done. She seems cold, but she’s anything but. She’s flawed. But you should see her smile. It’s rare, everything considered, it’s amazing. She is to be trusted, and she deserves kindness. She’s become more than I could have imagined.”

The words were just spilling out. Saying them made her believe them more. Speaking them from her chest made her feel them more. Kahlan thought of their lips’ first meeting, nervous but needing, surrounded by night wisps. Of shattering out the Con Dar, plummeting into Cara’s arms. The silent hand on her shoulder in the council chambers. Just Cara. All of her, every part, smile and glower and strength and doubt. Always there. Her.

“I owe her my life, Dennee.”

Dennee was quiet for a long moment. She held up her hands in lukewarm surrender, ready to drop it, but her words didn’t match her gesture.

“Kahlan. The way you talk about her, I...”

Her thought broke off at a point when she apparently wanted to say no more.

It was over.

Kahlan couldn’t bear to leave it like that.

She found that she didn’t have to force the warm smile she gave Dennee.

“I have something for you.”

She retrieved a tiny box from a chest by her bedroom door and placed it in front of Dennee, encouraging her to open it.

“I don’t know if you’ll remember them, but I truly hope you do.”

Dennee did.

“Mama’s earrings,” she gasped with hushed wonder. Kahlan’s eyes filled as she pulled them from the box with careful, reverent hands. Looking between Kahlan and the glittering sapphire finery, Dennee was undone. “Kahlan, how did you…”

“Our father gave them to me, for you. I have her necklace. I never knew this, but they were gifts for her, given in the joy of both our births.” She placed a tender hand on Dennee’s arm. “They’ll help keep her here with us.”

Dennee stood, the friction between them all but blotted out, and threw her arms around her older sister. Kahlan held her close.

“I miss her so much,” Dennee whispered. Kahlan nodded her agreement, cheek against Dennee’s forehead. “I already feel her, just holding them. And now, one day, we’ll pass them on to our daughters.”

“Yes, we will.” With the words, and the thoughts they brought, warmth and dread flooded Kahlan’s veins at the same time - she couldn’t tell which won the upper hand.

“She would be so proud of you, Kahlan. I know it.”

Kahlan said nothing. She just kept holding her.

Kahlan said nothing, but she hoped.

She wanted.

Her heart, her blood, crying out.

There was so much Kahlan wanted.

And there was so much she was not ready to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always!


	10. two wills // one mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It all needs to get worse before it gets better. Stick around?

At least Kahlan’s absence meant that Cara was spared from all of the incessant _bowing_ as she edged her way through the Stentor Street market.

The evening was sweltering and sticky despite the diminishing daylight. The days had begun their gradual work at growing shorter, but they were no cooler for it. And as Cara walked, she saw that neither the crushing humidity nor the quickening approach of night was a deterrent to the typical enterprise bustling all around her. The street was congested, body-bloated. The crowd of Aydindril common folk seemed to act as a collective entity: strolling, dabbing at damp foreheads with handkerchiefs, looking, comparing wares, chuckling, gossiping, all as one. Barely a soul paid Cara any mind - save for a few who were probably just a bit perplexed about all the leather. Even without the armored parts, it looked somewhat out of place. Their looks, though, did not linger beyond the amount of time it took to latch onto the next interesting sight. She was slipping through all but unnoticed. This, she decided, was good.

But the sword had two edges. Without all the brief pauses for abasement and reverence, she was bound to reach her destination more quickly. This was less of an advantage.

It was ridiculous. She was doing nothing wrong. She felt like she was doing something wrong. But she wasn’t - she was doing what Kahlan had commanded of her. No, what Kahlan had asked of her. _No_ , what Kahlan had _suggested_ to her, kindly and without expectation. Each thought was less convincing than the one before. Her reasons for going were dwindling just as quickly as the sunlight.

No. Cara was doing nothing wrong. She was doing what Kahlan wanted. A desire Kahlan had made perfectly clear. What else was she supposed to do, besides what Kahlan wanted? And it wasn’t like she had run directly out of the Confessors’ Palace at Kahlan’s first encouraging mention of the visit. She hadn’t been looking for an excuse to do this. To the contrary, she had spent two damned days steeped in indecision, with all of the weakest parts of her warring back and forth, belligerent and caustic.

Any choice would be the first step toward an escape from all the clashing.

This was the one she had made.

Perhaps Kahlan had a point. Having someone, and all that sentimental nonsense. Maybe this _was_ the right thing. Seeing Dahlia. Maybe it would be a full positive, and her feeble trepidation would be proven idiotic.

Kahlan had the infuriating tendency to be right about these sorts of things.

Then why wouldn’t her hands stop shaking, or her fingers stop throbbing in her gloves?

Heart in her throat, guts in an unrelenting free fall, she walked toward Ambrosio’s. To Dahlia. To her red-painted lips, to those shards of the not-so-distant past come even closer. The proximity made them feel larger, and sharper. More dangerous.

Mord-Sith were not afraid of danger. She was not afraid of danger.

She told herself that, repeating it twice in her head, as she sidestepped a man pulling a cart brimming with cabbages.

She was not afraid of danger, even when the danger was coming from herself, from the warm anticipation coiled in the pit of her stomach. In her lustful memories of Dahlia’s porcelain skin.

It was almost convincing. Almost. She was sweating - it was the heat. It had to be.

She had to be calm.

Her legs carried her, weaving through the unhurried congregation, strong and steadfast despite the agitation snapping at the rest of her body. She drew in a deep breath in an attempt to dispel some of it. The air was thick with the aroma of honey cakes up for sale from a stall to her left. The sickly sweet smell, and Cara’s certainty that they would taste much the same, did nothing to quell the bladed desire she was trying to keep at bay. She shifted her focus elsewhere, to the din of the street - the hoofbeats on the cobbles, the spirited racket of voices, all the rattle and the buzzing flowing through and around the market. Her head echoed like it was underwater.

Just briefly, she wondered what had rushed through Dahlia that evening, seeing Cara sitting there with the Mother Confessor. If it was the same as what went through her - the stomach in binds, the surge in the blood. Losing herself for an instant in the crashing wave of recollection, of the tangle and thrust of their bodies, arching and lissome - relishing in the carnal bond forged in all the harshness around them, sanctified in the soft reprieve from it.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that was all far from Dahlia’s mind. Maybe they were both someone different.

No, Cara knew that wasn’t true. Dahlia’s face had left no room for wondering. The nuances would have been indistinct to anyone else, especially to Kahlan. But to Cara, who had shared everything with her - the cut-short childhood, the roiling adolescence, the cold-blooded adulthood, there was no way of hiding much of anything. There were no pretenses in Dahlia’s eyes, nothing left unexposed in the gleaming curve of her smile.

Dahlia had seen her. Dahlia had felt the gripping hands, the bidding away of terrified tears. All of it.

Dahlia was relieved to see her here, after everything. And like a predator, Dahlia wanted. Cara swallowed.

From what seemed like far away, Cara heard the gentle hum of the street turn to surprised shouting. She reacted quickly despite her distraction, darting aside to the edge of the pathway, realizing she had not been paying attention to where she was walking. A group of mounted soldiers had come perilously close to treading on her. The leader among them held up a fist to halt the others, flashing Cara a scathing glare. She, of course, returned it.

“I think the bitch be blind,” he called over his shoulder to one of his comrades, voice thick with contempt, “or maybe just dim. Why else would she amble straight into a crew of horsemen?”

Cara’s first reaction was a swell of rage as she narrowed her eyes and curled her upper lip. She thought of the knife in her boot, and wished for a moment that she had her axe. But everything around her had stilled - she felt some eyes on her, intrigued by the impending conflict, and others deliberately cast aside, hoping to avoid the cringing sight entirely. Cara glanced at them only from the corners of her vision, keeping her eyes hard and trained on the mounted man.

In the steely silence, she became aware that escalating the issue was not the answer, as much as her pride and sensibilities cried for it. The last thing she needed right now was to draw more attention to herself. And Kahlan would probably not approve of the spilling of blood in the middle of the market, particularly if Cara was the one causing it to be spilled. She had to take another way out.

Cara despised every terse word that followed through her clenched jaw, slicing her from the inside out.

“I suppose I wasn’t looking where I was going. My apologies.”

“Then be out of our way.” The man sneered, flourishing his vivid red cape over the flank of his stallion. Each of the soldiers had one, draped behind brilliantly-shining armor that glinted in the approaching sunset. They were armed and guarded to the teeth - helmets and gauntlets and weapons of every sort. Cara took it in coolly, registering it in her mind, along with his only-vaguely familiar accent, filing it away for later address. Then, she spoke.

“I already am out of your way.” She raised an eyebrow and gave a broad sweep of her arm, indicating the clear path ahead of them. “Go along freely to whatever _crucial_ business it is you have here, to be charging through a crowded street.”

“All we do be crucial in the fight against the Keeper and his banelings.” The reply was a haughty huff. Cara nearly rolled her eyes at the dramatic posing.

“Better get on with his downfall, then. I’m sure he’s terrified of your pretty shine and polish.” Cara shrugged, unable to resist giving at least one jab.

“You have a sharp tongue,” the man spat, looking for just a moment that he was ready to dismount and face her. Cara’s hand twitched, ready to grab for her knife. Instead, he gave a sharp shake of his head and urged his horse forward, but not without a final word of menace. “The Keeper’s banelings hide among us all, like snakes. And some not be as hidden. We watch for them.”

With that, they were gone, riding off toward some pretentious goal Cara simply didn’t have time to wonder about. She would report this to Kahlan, later. But whoever they were, they were doing what she wanted - keeping prepared for banelings, for whatever was next.

With the hoofbeats receding into the distance, the folks around Cara slowly returned to their pottering and discussion.

After one last affronted scowl in the direction of the fading sound, Cara also continued on her uneasy voyage to whatever awaited her at Ambrosio’s.

* * *

The tavern was already flush with patrons as Cara slunk through the front door. Some were just beginning to dig into their luxurious suppers. Others had apparently finished an early meal and were already well-engaged in the after-dinner wassailing. She slipped into the merriment unnoticed, scanning the room of revelers, thankful that not a soul had noticed her.

Until one did.

Cara felt her eyes before she saw them. That same relieved regard. All of the familiarity of her pale blue gaze.

Dahlia was across the dining room, where she had been leaning over two male customers, slender arms draped across their shoulders, head tossed back with what sounded like hearty laughter at the bawdy drinking song they were belting. Cara recognized at once that her amusement had been fake. But now, their eyes had locked, and Dahlia’s smile had turned real, though it was still small, closed-lip. It sent a chill over her.

Dahlia patted one of the men’s necks before whispering what Cara was sure was an apology into both of their ears. She all but floated away from them, stopping at the wine barrels to fill a clean goblet. She crossed the room with a torturous sort of slowness, never losing that smile, eyes sparkling as she approached Cara.

Cara, meanwhile, was frozen in place. New entrants were squeezing in around her, squinting their annoyance at the leather-clad woman blocking the door. She clenched her fists.

And then Dahlia was there, inches from her.

(And again, Cara could have reached out and touched her. If she wanted to.)

Dahlia was holding the goblet out to her. A wordless awaiting. Cara stared, eyes flickering between the offered wine and Dahlia’s fine face.

“It’s not poisoned, Cara. I promise,” Dahlia finally said with a suggestive lift of her brow, her smile slipping into the teasing tone of her words. “Just take it.”

Cara did, striking a dominant, straight-shouldered posture.

With a pointed gaze, Cara drank. Blood-red, bone-dry. Aggressive tannin taste on her tongue. Just what she liked. What Dahlia knew, always knew, she liked. She drank again. Dahlia grinned, leaning close to Cara’s ear.

“I was wondering when you’d come through that door again, _alone_ ,” she murmured, and the close vibration of her voice tightened Cara’s grip on the goblet. The jubilant rabble around them was gone, melted away, drowned out by only Dahlia. “The other girl owes me. Give me five minutes, and we’ll go to my quarters. Bring the drink with you - I’ll get one for myself, too.”

Cara said nothing. Just took two more huge gulps from the goblet, draining it, not daring to break the eye contact between them. Wiping her lips with the back of her gloved hand, she thrust the empty goblet toward Dahlia, whose grin turned just a bit darker.

“Another, then?”

Cara nodded, once, straight-faced. Dahlia took the barren cup and set off. Cara watched her.

The wine burned all the way down her throat.

* * *

Dahlia’s private sleeping quarters were on the third level of the palatial inn, stacked on top of the guest rooms. The room was small and sparsely furnished - a featherbed with an unadorned frame, a cheval mirror, a clothes chest, a wash basin. But for its modesty, it was clean and secure and hers alone, with a door that locked. A decided perk of employment at one of the finer establishments of the capital city of the Midlands, Cara was sure. Sunset light filtered through the small window, catching floating dust specks in its beam, and Cara could see that Dahlia’s room was much less _red_ than her own.

Dahlia held the door open for Cara, bidding her to enter with a flick of her chin.

Cara could still leave. She was not bound and gagged, not being hauled in by rope and rough hands. Her legs were free. She could turn on her heel, scurry back down the stairs, and get herself back to the Confessors’ Palace, forgetting this affair and stupid idea entirely. Nobody would be the wiser. It might be better that way.

She could have left.

She stepped into Dahlia’s room.

Dahlia followed, closing the door behind them. The sound of the lock latching was much louder than it should have been.

For a moment, they stood in silence. Sizing one another up. Watching the other breathing, lungs slowly but greedily sucking in the quiet air. Cara’s heart hammered in her ears. She would have to say something eventually. A quick flurry of unease flooded her when she realized she didn’t know what would come from her mouth if she opened it. Dahlia took a sip from her goblet, and Cara knew what was in it without looking - a white wine, sweet with fruit, always the opposite of what hers contained. A flavor she could only stand through its remnants on Dahlia’s tongue.

And with that very thought, Dahlia’s tongue worked.

“So?” she offered, smirking, before taking another drink.

“So.” Cara’s voice was wooden, already sick of the infernal nervous quiet, this inane dancing around everything. Dahlia’s hair, a shade or two darker than her own, was loose, gently curling and flowing down her back, and Cara remembered how it could cling to both of them in the temple baths. Especially when Cara would take her from behind **,** rough, all potency. It was a hard image to banish with enough haste to avoid the lust it brought in its wake.

Dahlia gestured toward the bed with an open palm. “Sit?”

Simple answer, but not easy. “I’ll stand.”

Dahlia shrugged. “Suit yourself. I plan on it.” She moved across the room, and Cara tried very hard not to be riveted by the sway of her hips. “I’m also going to change. I swear, all those halfwitted men do is spill and spit. I finish every evening smelling like a musty cask of ale. If they didn’t throw so many coins my way, I wouldn’t be quite so accommodating.”

Before Cara could react or protest, Dahlia was undressing. She worked her way out of her corset and burgundy dress with much more quick nimbleness than any other woman might, thanks to endless practice getting in and out of Mord-Sith leathers. She let the garments pool to the floor around her feet and nudged them out of the way, making no effort to hide herself from Cara. Not that she needed to; Cara had seen it all, nearly as often as she had seen herself. And she was seeing her now, too. Her pale bare skin, presented plainly, and her body, willowy but lithe, caused Cara to rush. Without true intent, her gaze lingered on Dahlia’s small and pert breasts, and she was pummeled by the memory of how ridiculously sensitive they were. Of how Dahlia’s nipples felt in her mouth, hard with desire, and how Dahlia’s hips would twitch against Cara when she teased them with her tongue.

Cara was spared from Dahlia’s nakedness, but not from the unruly beginnings of arousal, as Dahlia slipped a tunic over her top half, covered by only smallclothes below. She sat on the bed, curling her legs under herself, leaving deliberate space beside her for Cara. Cara didn’t budge. Dahlia sucked her teeth and, once again, broke the awkward silence.

“Here we both are.”

“Here we both are,” Cara agreed, voice flat despite the weightlessness spiraling in her limbs. Taken by a sudden boldness - a strange settling back into rapport - she furthered the conversation. “And frankly, I’m surprised by you. The Dahlia I knew never would have served the common herd with such a painfully painted smile.”

Dahlia’s eyes shined with the satisfaction of having hooked Cara into something beyond a one-word response or repetition. “We both know you don’t need to patronize me, Cara. Serving the infuriating merrymakers of Aydindril is mind-numbing, of course. But serving them is worlds better than serving _you_.” The final word was barbed with a sneer that Cara felt everywhere.

“And compared to serving Lord Rahl?”

Dahlia’s face fell as she pursed her lips, eyes sharp. She remained quiet, finishing the wine in her cup. Cara did the same. Her mind already felt like worn wool - she hadn’t eaten since early that day, and she had apparently begun to lose her tolerance. It was discomfiting.

“I could say the same for you,” Dahlia sighed, ignoring Cara’s question, obviously never meaning to answer it. “You were one of Lord Rahl’s most favored Mord-Sith. A better Mord-Sith than I ever could be. I was always selfish and weak. Though I guess that benefited me in the end.” She shrugged, gesturing at her chambers, at this new life she had staggered into. “But you, Cara. You led the charge at Palace Ridge. You were merciless at Valeria. You swore to put an end to all of what you now _apparently_ serve.” The banter was to be expected, but there was certain disappointment flowing through her voice. “What happened to you?”

“The true Lord Rahl. The Seeker. Richard,” Cara answered without hesitation, all of Richard’s titles and monikers.

The other name was a silent scream.

Dahlia’s sneer returned, unconvinced.

“Sure. Alright. Though I’m left to wonder how that’s led to you following at the Mother Confessor’s heels like a trained dog.”

“I’m not her dog,” Cara almost spat before calming herself halfway through. This was Dahlia’s typical way of getting a playful rise out of her. And it was working. Spirits, it was still working. She seethed inside. “I swore to Richard that I would protect the Mother Confessor. I don’t intend on shirking that duty.”

And Dahlia laughed.

“Calm yourself, Cara. Don’t take everything so seriously. There’s no need to anymore.” She was smiling again, with teeth. “I shouldn’t be surprised by it. Always so devoted to Lord Rahl. It’s no wonder you betrayed us, and then abandoned us at the first sniff of a new one.”

For just an instant, Cara hated her more than she hated anything in the world. This was unfolding differently than she had expected. “I didn’t _abandon_ anyone. I was the one beaten and left for dead.”

“ _Because_ you betrayed Darken Rahl,” Dahlia countered in clarification. “Do you want to hear what happened to us when you helped to end the war in the Seeker’s favor?”

There was so much Dahlia spoke of but did not know. That she didn’t understand. That she had no way of understanding. But she just kept rattling on before Cara could say anything.

“With the death of Darken Rahl, the D’Haran’s bond with their leader was severed. They had no chance to accept or acknowledge the Seeker as the new heir. That confused energy was trapped, with nowhere to go, like a dam bursting. Like a constant death knell. The riots, Cara. You can’t imagine.” She shook her head. “Some remained loyal to their fallen leader. Others quietly abdicated to the Midlands, or even to the Old World. Some took advantage of the unrest for their own gain.”

Cara swallowed, truly considering for the first time what she had left behind on the other side of the forgotten conflict. What she had left in the ruins.

“I thought of you every single day after I was reassigned to the temple at Jandralyn. I missed you, Cara. Every single day. And after everything, I kept thinking that if you had been there with me, with us, it would have ended differently. A stupid thought, but my thought nonetheless.” Outside, the sun was sinking. A shadow had fallen across her face. Cara was entranced by it. “They came for Darken Rahl’s treasure hidden there. We held them off at first, but they were relentless. We were outnumbered, overrun. The same happened at the other temples. Our order has been decimated. We might be the only Mord-Sith left alive.”

For a long moment, Cara didn’t know what to say.

“Dahlia,” she murmured, buying time, trying to think of a way to explain herself. How to explain everything to Dahlia. Why she did what she did. She couldn’t think of it. Why did she do any of it? It felt so distant to her, now. No, she knew why she took the path she did. Her head was confused. It was the wine. It was Dahlia sitting there, scrutinizing her, yanking all of the old wounds open. Sitting there in that tunic that left her pale, smooth thighs exposed.

It was the way Dahlia was suddenly smiling - warm, calmed, _happy_ \- despite what she had been retelling, the expression wrenching at Cara’s heart, reminding her of the first time it beat for somebody other than herself.

“But you’re here, now.” Dahlia breathed, letting go of the tension at last. “I survived. We survived. And the world is different, but we’re both here.”

The world was different. Cara couldn’t number the ways in which it was. It just was.

She took those tenuous few steps to the bed and sank down next to Dahlia, making sure their bodies did not touch, even in the slightest way. She rested her elbows on her knees and looked at the floor between her boots.

“So there were no other survivors?”

“I don’t know the full extent. Just Jandralyn,” Dahlia replied. Without looking, Cara felt her hand inch closer. It remained just out of contact. “Hally was killed. Brutally. She sacrificed herself to help us get away. We lost Garren, too, but she was just captured. Not killed. At least not in front of me.” Dahlia ran a hand through her bronze hair. “Berdine and Raina made it out with me, but we went separate ways. Their destination was Caddock. They wanted to start a life together, a free life. If Mord-Sith can ever be free, or in _love_ , that is. I have no idea if they made it.”

Though the last bit was laced with palpable sourness, Cara thought of Berdine and Raina, and how similar they had been to her and Dahlia. Bound to each other in the comfort of flesh and heart.

“And anyone from outside of Jandralyn?” She wanted names, any single familiar name of even just one more of her Sisters.

Dahlia chewed her lip and bowed her head. “The only other name I have is Denna, and only rumors. I heard she had taken to something very...well, _Denna_ , after the war ended.”

Cara had to let out the sullen laugh that bubbled up her throat. Otherwise, it would have choked her.

“She was,” Cara confirmed, “until I put an arrow through her.”

Silence.

“Oh.”

“She was a threat to Richard’s quest.” A quick and probably-unnecessary explanation.

Nothing else needed to be said.

The quiet went on for a moment. There was a raucous guffawing in the tavern, muted and muffled by all the space between. She and Dahlia were so secluded from everything else, together in that tiny, ever-darkening room. Cara’s fingers itched. She searched for something else to say.

“I’ve laid my reasons bare. You haven’t.” Cara’s voice had become gravelly. “Why Aydindril? Why not Stowecroft?”

Dahlia scoffed. “I make a good living here. I’ve been lucky. There’s nothing for me in Stowecroft.”

Cara chanced a look at her, from the corner of her eye. The look of her, hair falling forward, shoulders straight despite her frown, was mesmerizing. Like a ghost on full view.

“Your brother is there.”

Dahlia’s head snapped to face her, gaze sharp with sudden intent. “Sirian is alive?” Though her voice was cool and measured, Cara could tell that she was invested in the answer. She knew her well enough. “You saw him?”

Cara nodded.

“How…” Dahlia’s voice trailed off once before she finished a question she no longer knew how to ask. “How is he?”

And for the first time since she entered Dahlia’s room, for the first time she left the Confessors’ Palace that evening, Cara felt a small smirk curling at her mouth.

“Married to my sister.” She finally looked up at Dahlia. Their faces were inches apart. Dahlia was grinning too, accentuating her high, elegant cheekbones. It sent Cara’s senses aflame. She thought again of Dahlia’s bare skin under the tunic and reeled. Her eyes looked like sapphires in the dim light - a darker hue than the other blue she had spent so much time studying lately.

“He married Grace.” A flat, but somehow incredulous, reiteration of what Cara had just told her.

Cara nodded. “They have two children.” A pause. “And he turned me in to stand trial for my _crimes_.”

Dahlia laughed again, throaty and soft. Cara wanted to groan with the nearness of it. And she couldn’t stand it, the almost-groan and the nearness alike.

“He was always a bastard,” Dahlia remarked with a tilt of her head and quirk of her brow. Her voice dropped, then, in a way that sent Cara’s core tightening. “It’s funny, though, how they found comfort in each other. Isn’t it?”

And then her hand was on Cara’s leg, drifting lazily towards the apex of her thighs. Realizing she had let her legs fall open, enthusiastic, at the contact, she edged out of Dahlia’s reach. Her body was already so pent-up and turned-on that it was nearly impossible to pull away. But she was too disciplined not to. Wasn’t she? She had to tell herself that again when she saw Dahlia’s guarded, but jilted, expression.

So Cara spoke again, instead, to make up for it.

“Did you keep your Agiel?”

It was a stupid question. She didn’t know why she asked it. She just needed to say something, anything. Anything to keep Dahlia speaking, to keep their mouths separated, to keep Dahlia’s hands from roving. To keep her _own_ hands from beginning to rove. Anything. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. She ached. Her words shook with the effort of keeping the desire ensnared.

Dahlia gave her another tight-lipped smile, eyelids drooping, and Cara saw her tongue run over her top teeth. She held up a finger and stood, moving toward the clothes chest. Cara looked up at the ceiling to keep her eyes away from Dahlia’s barely-covered ass. It was a hardship. Luckily, she found what she was looking for with haste and took her place on the bed beside Cara again - much closer this time. Her knees were pointed at her, pressed against the side of Cara’s thigh.

She dropped the Agiel in Cara’s lap.

“I tried to get rid of it. I couldn’t.” Her voice was faint. “It will always have me, even without its power.”

Cara grasped the handle of the leather rod and lifted it, sending its fine-linked chain dangling. No pain. No jarring strain streaming up her arm, rattling her bones. Nothing familiar, nothing as it was. Of course it wasn’t. Richard was dead. And the world was different.

Cara stared at the lame Agiel, the first she had held aside from her own in so long. She was empty. “Did you feel it go quiet?”

Dahlia described it somberly, eyes dark. “I was already here in Aydindril when it did. One night, I went to sleep clutching it, burying myself in the agony. The very next night, when I went to do the same, it was silent.”

Cara swallowed hard and did not recount her own moment of discovery. She couldn’t free it from her chest. The first lie, the first moment of her greatest failing. She saw Kahlan’s eyes swirling with the blackness of the Con Dar and winced. Felt Kahlan’s frenzied, crushing grip on her throat. Felt Kahlan, just Kahlan.

She pushed it all away.

“Remember, when we were little girls, how terrifying the Agiels were, then? How much they hurt?” Dahlia was murmuring, drawing Cara’s attention back. Back to that room and the woman with whom she shared so much of her bare heart, unguarded in the face of what they had endured. “You held my hand so tightly, it was the only thing that kept me from crying. We knew if we cried they’d just torture us more.”

With her words, Cara felt it again. Tiny hands, but a strong shared grip. Protecting one another. Growing together, in every way.

“Not so frightening now, are they?” Dahlia murmured, prying it from Cara.

No, Cara wanted to reply. More frightening. There was so much Dahlia did not understand.

“We comforted each other then.” Dahlia leaned in. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we have the chance to comfort each other now, at the end of it.”

Dahlia was tugging at Cara’s gloves, removing them. Cara wasn’t stopping her. She was stuck rehashing past words, ones she had spoken in a dodged future.

_I don’t know about you, but I’d need to find some small bit of comfort in this cursed place._

Her hands were bare, then, and one was on Dahlia’s knee. She had no idea how it got there. She didn’t know what she wanted. She just knew that she _wanted_. No, that wasn’t who she was. This wasn’t what she wanted. But more of her old words debated her vehemently, echoing in her mind the same way they had fallen from her lips, dripping and heady.

 _Who said anything about love? I’m talking about pleasure_.

And the pleasure was right there - the fulfilling pleasure she hadn’t relished in for so long. It was there and so close she could touch it. She _was_ touching it. She shouldn’t have been touching it. This wasn’t who she was anymore. The world was different. Her world was different. She jerked her hand away from Dahlia’s skin but Dahlia caught it within her own, lacing their fingers together, holding it to her chest and Cara felt her heartbeat. It ruined her.

“Cara. I never thought I would see you again.” Raw, ripped to shreds. Dahlia’s eyes had a sudden vulnerable shine. They gleamed with it in the low light. “Ever since I was sent to Jandralyn, I have been shattered. I tried to be like you. To never let it show. The others would know I was weak, and I _am_ weak. You know I am. I’ve spent a year wrapped futilely in everything I feel for you, everything I know we feel for each other. It’s gotten me through the way it did when we were little. We’re both weak. We protect each other from our weaknesses.”

It was so honest, so true, so unexpectedly disarming that Cara answered before she could think it through.

“I never thought I would see you again either.”

Cara’s revelation was thick with longing. She didn’t think she would. But she had dreamed of it before. Wondered about it, and hoped for it. Solace. Reprieve from all of the thousands of things she did not know or understand. To be unburdened. Understood, irrevocably.

“I’m glad you decided to come to me.”

Cara had to be honest, too. She had to try. Nothing about the evening was turning out to be honest, though, despite her tattered attempts.

“I came because Kahlan asked me to.”

Kahlan’s name was hard to say, sitting there like she was, hands all over another woman. Like a clumsy word in a language she didn’t know. She said it anyway. Dahlia’s face turned to stone at the sound of it, too - at the Mother Confessor’s name spoken so casually and drenched with emotion. Her fingers caught Cara’s chin, forcing Cara to look at her, lips stiff, nearly pouting.

“Are you sorry you did?”

“No,” Cara whispered at once, and it was true, so ardently true, and the truth of the word surprised her as much as it pleased Dahlia. She smiled softly, or smirked, or both, brushing her thumb along the bottom of Cara’s parted lips. Cara, suddenly panting, gently grazed the tip of it with her teeth.

“Neither am I.”

The last thing Cara’s mind registered before their mouths were pressed together, immediately raring and fervent, starved of each other for too long, was how beautiful the shadow over half of Dahlia’s face was.

Cara’s greedy body reacted without delay. Dahlia’s hands grabbing hold of her neck, her fingers tangling eagerly in her hair, tongue in her mouth, sent her skin tingling. She was already pulsing, barely contained in her leather. Dahlia tasted just the same as she had half a lifetime ago, the first time. Just as she had a year ago, the last time. Always the same, even here, a world away. A blinding constant. She wondered if she still tasted the same, too. Dahlia’s teeth clasped and scraped her bottom lip and Cara followed the motion, leaning into her. It might have been an answer to her silent question. Cara couldn’t know. Her thoughts were slipping away, like ash through her fingers. Like she had just set herself on fire.

Dahlia shifted her position, straddling Cara’s lap and arching into her. Each took a few gasping breaths during the movement, bringing in as much air as they could before moving in to engulf one another again. Dahlia took Cara’s naked hands and guided them to her hips, pulling off her tunic when they found purchase.

Everything was rushing back. Being torn away from home together. The first time they had seen one another in their leathers and braids, as fully-fledged and proven Mord-Sith. The first time they were inside of one another, learning to mingle pleasure with the pain of their existence.

All of Dahlia’s bare flesh before her eyes and under her palms was overwhelming. It was too much to be seeing her, and touching her, and satisfying her, this body that was here and wanting her and able to be touched. Cara’s blood was swirling violently in her veins, every fragment of her aching for the contact. She let her tongue flick Dahlia’s upper lip as she drew their hips together, rolling upward, earning a gasp against her mouth. She could feel Dahlia’s hip bones under her palms, and she was thinner than she had been before, but that didn’t matter. Not when Dahlia’s mouth was at the crook of her neck, kissing, then sucking, then biting, and Cara somehow found the mental space to hope she didn’t leave a bruise. She swallowed at the sensation darting down her spine and there was a helpless moan at the end of it, one that never would have escaped from her before, and Dahlia knew it too, because she let out a breathy, smug laugh against Cara’s ear. Cara exacted revenge by groping at her breasts, taking one nipple in her mouth and tweaking the other with her thumb.

Dahlia whined her name, needy, earnest, and Cara was sent unhinged at the sound of it.

It would be so easy. It would be easy to move past the flimsy silk barrier of her smallclothes and take her, to have Dahlia ride her fingers until she was releasing around them, crying out in that urgent and thrilled way she always had. To finally be connected to somebody in a way she knew - in a way that didn’t make her feel like she was splintering. Through skin, through sex, through coming. Through violently claiming. It would be easy, and nothing else was easy now. Not Richard’s death, not Shota’s words. Not being in Aydindril with everything unfamiliar and Dennee Amnell’s scornful eyes always on her. Not the ways she felt herself changing, bones cracking and rearranging, making her feel so small, so weak-backed. So lost, made of glass.

Nothing was easy. Especially not having Kahlan and Kahlan’s heart so close, but unable to touch - unable to break through the tension around what they both felt and what they both were. And who they had lost along the way. And every single frustrating mixed signal. There were plenty of them. Nothing was easy. And it was taking its excruciating toll.

So Cara did what was easy, heart racing, inviting danger.

She slipped her hand into Dahlia's smallclothes, shivering at how wet she found her there. She pushed all the air of her lungs before drawing more in. Cara was wet, too, hot and slick in her leathers. It felt like everything she understood. Dahlia backed away, meeting her with a heavy-lidded gaze and a languorous smile. She allowed herself to indulge in one slow roll of her hips against Cara’s hand, groaning and tossing her head back, before she grabbed Cara’s buried wrist, impeding her from making the next move.

Cara was all but crazed as Dahlia leaned closer to purr against her lips.

“I want you out of your leather. I want to feel you, Cara. Just us.”

Her words played havoc with something at the base of Cara’s skull.

 _Just us_.

Her promise, in that isolated wayward pine. An eternity of them. Kahlan had her forever.

Kahlan’s voice cut through the smoke in her head.

It was _you make me feel something_. And _I want_. And _it’s meaningful to me_. And _rise_.

And _thank you, for being here with me_.

Her heartbeat. Cara could feel it everywhere. She could feel it even here: insistent, hypnotic, absolute. Attaching itself, gathering her up, breaking her down and bringing her back. Everything she did, everything she said, everything she was flailing through. In all of the caught-in-between spaces.

It was splintering her. But maybe the splintering wasn’t the problem.

Dahlia had been right. The world was different. Her world was different.

Her world was...

Dahlia’s intrepid fingers were on the laces at the back of her neck.

Cara felt herself moving through a flash of panic.

She wasn’t sure how she got herself out from under Dahlia’s weight, but the physics of it didn’t matter. Just that she did. Her hands were trembling, the fingers of one still coated in the slickness of Dahlia’s arousal. She shuddered.

And Dahlia was staring at her, left alone on the bed, eyes narrow but mouth hanging slightly open in confusion. She went to speak, to ask, but nothing came out. Cara answered the silence.

“I can’t.” Gruff, short, voice cracking. She lowered her eyes. Picked up her gloves where they lay on the floor, discarded. “Dahlia, I’m not-”

She was interrupted by a bitter laugh rippling from the other woman, the coldness of it covering up the hurt of being abruptly spurned. Dahlia’s mystified mouth curled into a harsh smile, suddenly looking much more like the Mord-Sith Cara remembered. Her accusation was like venom spewing into Cara’s blood.

“It’s _her_ , isn’t it?”

The name didn’t need to be uttered.

Cara’s upper lip flinched as she bit the lower one to keep herself from speaking. Or shouting. She was boiling from the inside out. She forced her eyes to stay down.

Another laugh, this one more astounded, imbued with more vitriol. An “are you _joking_?” escaped at the end of it, and it was a direct hit to the weakest spot in Cara’s ribs. Dahlia shook her head, rolled her eyes, shrugged, every gesture she could display to show her disdain for the ridiculous situation. “You’re not joking. Of course you’re not. I should have realized - I know your weaknesses. But you must know that you’re also _insane_.”

Cara’s mouth remained shut tight. Her eyes burned. She wasn’t insane, she wasn’t stupid. But she was angry. At Dahlia, at nothing in particular but at everything. Angry like she used to be, like she so often still was. The kind of fury that radiated through her skin and permeated the very air around her with nowhere else to go. She was trying. She was failing, still failing, she had failed here, but she was trying. She felt sick.

Without space for a single word, she turned to leave.

She heard a desperate _wait, Cara_ behind her but she was already halfway down the rickety staircase and gone.

* * *

The cover of early nightfall gave fewer eyes the possibility to see Cara as she made her hurried way back to the Confessors’ Palace. It was more of a blessing than it had been in the opposite direction. It would have been even better to be dissolved entirely in the silvery moonlight, blown into far obscurity.

She made it to her chambers without commanding undue attention or regard. She had controlled her movements, controlled her face, controlled herself despite the storm raging through her body. All but ripping herself from her leathers as soon as the door slammed and locked, Cara wished she could rip herself from her skin, too.

Crawling into bed brought no reprieve. The trembling anger was still churning through her, rolling off of her in scalding waves. She hated what she had done in that shadowy room with Dahlia. Almost did. Didn’t, but had wanted to at least briefly, with every ounce of her weight.

It was still destroying her. Wanting to feel complete while still being so incomplete. So weak. Still being made up of two parts, each wrestling away from and hoping to annihilate the other, wrecking their host in the process. All of the momentary glimmers of hope and hints of change, dangled in front of her and then snatched away. She seethed, only seeming to tense up despite her best efforts to just end this night and let sleep take her.

But it wouldn’t, because her body was angry, too. It was thrumming and prickling in revolt against what it had been offered but denied, demanding the act to be finished, demanding release. Her sex throbbed in time with her pulse. With a cringing grimace and an uncontrollable precursory moan, Cara squeezed her eyes shut and slipped her hand between her legs, feeling how wet she still was, feeling the mess she had begun. Almost of its own accord, her hand began to work, nimble and proficient. Too well-practiced. Pathetic.

Cara didn’t want it, but she needed it. The stimulation gave rise to the nearly-overpowering sensation regardless of the intent.

With her eyes closed, Cara wasn’t in the bed alone. And it wasn’t Dahlia she felt, touching her in all those familiar ways. It was Kahlan. It was Kahlan with her in that bed, staking new and emphatic claim to every inch of Cara’s skin with hands and mouth. It was Kahlan sharing her own body, too. It was Kahlan’s fingers thrusting and working deep inside of her, making her writhe and arch, meeting Cara’s every powerless plea with eagerness and a lopsided, heavy-eyed, lust-drunk smile. It was too much for Cara to take.

It was Kahlan’s name tearing her throat with delirious force as her orgasm crashed over her, the sound of it cleaving everything in two.

Cara lay still through the tiny quakes that came after, making no attempt to calm her breathing or her heartbeat. Her eyes burned and pricked, and she gave one a rough rub with her palm, jaw tight, as her vision began to swim. This was ridiculous. She would not shed tears over any of this - she would not shed tears at all. A gasp against them quelled the urge for the moment, but did nothing to ease the heaviness causing them. She felt awful. Her body was quiet after release but the guilt remained, wilder than before.

She needed the only thing that made her feel not-awful anymore, that gave her those rare moments of worth. And right now, she knew it would be the very thing to make her feel even worse. But she was accustomed to that - the antidote being part of the poison - after a lifetime of it. She knew what she needed though it would be loathsome to seek it.

She _was_ loathsome.

Cursing every single damnable thing, Cara drew herself from the bed and began to dress.

* * *

The Mother Confessor’s posted guard seemed surprised to see her.

And he should have been - it was growing late, and Cara hadn’t realized that it was growing late, because time passed despite her own world barely moving. She should have just turned back around and left, because this was suspect and self-indulgent and too much a draw of attention. But before she could, he was already addressing her.

“Mistress Cara?” He squinted at her not out of malice, but casual puzzlement. Even with everything stirring inside, there was a moment of gratification. He was learning. “The Mother Confessor has been working all evening and I expect her to retire soon, if she already hasn’t. Is she expecting you?”

“Yes, she is.” Cara’s reflexive lie came through half-gritted teeth.

The guard’s expression betrayed his uncertainty. “She was adamant that she wanted no disturbances. I will check with her first.”

Cara stood straight as he rapped two resounding knocks on the great door behind him.

“Yes?” Kahlan’s voice echoed from within after a moment, just as confused as the guard but already washing over Cara like a balm.

“Your Mord-Sith claims that you are expecting her.”

A pause, maybe a muffled rustling. Cara counted the seconds of silence until Kahlan would reply. Instead, the door cracked open and Kahlan appeared herself, hair loose, already in her nightclothes. Wincing, Cara waited for Kahlan to point out her falsehood. But her eyes were soft blue as she addressed the guard.

“Of course I am.” She turned to Cara, then, raising an eyebrow and tucking her hair behind her ear. “I was wondering when you’d show up. You kept me waiting. Come inside.”

And that was that.

Kahlan smiled at her in greeting as the door closed and locked behind them, but there was concern in it. “Are you alright?” she asked in that way she had of piercing straight to Cara’s center. “What do you need?”

Cara looked down at her feet as she brought her hand from behind her back, revealing the nightshirt bundled in her tight fist.

“I was hoping I could stay here tonight. With you.”

The request was mumbled, flat, small. Cara wasn’t sure how much smaller she could get.

But the answer came in the form of Kahlan’s smile brightening.

* * *

“Are you sure everything is alright?” Kahlan tucked her chin into her chest as she studied Cara from the other side of the bed. “You’re not yourself, Cara. You haven’t been.”

“I’m fine.” Cara wanted to sink into Kahlan’s bed and disappear entirely. “Don’t concern yourself.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Cara took a ragged breath and found an indirect way to answer her.

“I did what you asked.” A beat. “I went to see her.”

Kahlan blinked once before her eyes shined with glad recognition. “You did?” Her voice was much too cheery for the situation. “How was it?”

“I won’t be going again.”

Kahlan just squinted at her. “Why?”

Kahlan didn’t know. Kahlan _couldn’t_ know unless Cara told her. And she wasn’t going to let it go, because Kahlan didn’t let things go. Cara had to tell her, and tell her honestly, even though it felt like she was eviscerating herself.

“Because we weren’t _friends_.” Her voice was like acid and Kahlan winced. Cara bit down and tried, _really_ tried, to calm herself enough to let the rest out. “Before we were taken, yes. But not after that. Not as we grew. We were _intimate_ , Kahlan. In every way. For a long time, with fervor and regularity. We were each other’s comfort in everything. Each other’s constant. All of it and more.” The words were pouring from her like blood from a slit throat, but the one particular word she couldn’t acknowledge stayed locked inside. “Seeing her made me think of a thousand things I didn’t want to think of again.” She let out a defeated sigh. “I don’t know what else to say.”

For a long moment, Kahlan’s expression was unreadable, mostly because Cara outright refused to look at it in the first place.

“...oh.”

Kahlan’s first lame utterance was a single syllable, like she was disappointed in herself. Like she was shocked but realizing that she should have known. Like she had just thought of something she hadn’t before. It was made to fill the space as she looked for more to say.

“I’m so sorry, Cara.” Genuine, steady, clawing at Cara’s heart. “I never would have pushed you to go if I had known it would be painful for you.”

“Don’t apologize.” She was ludicrous for apologizing. She was the one wronged, even if she didn’t know the extent. She would never know.

“ Do you…” Kahlan’s voice had changed before it trailed off with a swallow. Cara’s reluctant eyes darted to her only to find her looking away. Some dark uncertainty clouded her averted gaze. She blinked and started her question again with a deep breath. “Do you _still_ want to be intimate with her?”

The question was so vulnerable, so diminutive, but something in it let Cara know that no matter how she answered, Kahlan would not be angry with her. It made her even more disgusted with herself.

“No.” It was a half-truth, a hollow word. She heard Kahlan let out something that could have been a sigh of relief, but it barely broke the threshold of her awareness. She wanted so many things all at once. She wanted it to not hurt to change, after a life of enduring hurt. She wanted to draw Kahlan in and kiss her with open-mouthed frenzy, to cast out Dahlia’s lingering taste. To purge herself of what she had done, of what she was. But she knew she couldn’t, and that was the most hollow thought of all. She didn’t notice she had shed a tear until she saw Kahlan notice it, devastation etching itself across her own features. Cara turned her face to the pillow before Kahlan could do something as infuriating as brushing it away. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry.” It was whispered, it wasn’t a question.

There were so many reasons. But one rose above the rest.

“For being weak.”

And then Kahlan’s hand was on her face, delicate but unflinching, making Cara look at her. Her eyes were perfect, her mouth was perfect.

Cara was not perfect. Far from it.

“You need to stop doing this to yourself. Nobody else is doing it to you,” Kahlan told her in a firm, low tone that chilled her. “You hate weakness. But the hate for it alone isn’t what makes _you_ strong, Cara. There’s so much more to it than that.”

And Cara didn’t understand. But Kahlan was so certain in what she was saying that she wanted to understand. So she just blinked and nodded, as though the action itself would bring about some epiphany. It didn’t, but it did make Kahlan soften.

“Now, come here. You need to sleep. You look so tired.”

She was.

Kahlan urged Cara to move closer to her. After Cara’s hesitant, stunned movement, Kahlan closed the rest of the distance herself until their bodies were touching, facing one another, so close that Cara could have completely fallen apart. She breathed through the feathery touches, breathed in Kahlan’s scent, brought in the warm grace dominating the colossal guilt. Wrapped up in it, Cara felt Kahlan take her hand and drape it across her own waist before embracing Cara herself, resting her hand at the small of her back. Kahlan’s hand was shaking as it pressed against her. It was almost too much. Almost.

The easy quiet, the contact in the dark, Kahlan’s insistence on her being there, had completely absorbed her. The clattering in her head was gone, replaced by this immediate, unbroken hush.

Earlier that evening, with Dahlia, nothing had been peace, or ease. This - the heavy warmth of Kahlan’s body pressed against her, the way she nestled in just a bit closer after the first moment of adjustment, her head cradled into the crook where Cara’s shoulder met her chest - this was peace. This was being tethered to something. An unexplored way of connection, but connection the same. Her heart, her scars, every flaw, all of her, right there. Both of them. In spite of everything she was, Kahlan wanted her here. Wanted her closer.

This was a calm Cara did not deserve. But she wanted to deserve it, to grow into it. She needed _wanting it_ to be enough.

Cara hadn’t expected to sleep that night. Maybe never again, at all. But spared from all the vicious thrashing, weary and tamed and unashamed of it, she began to drift off with Kahlan in a surreal embrace.

There had to be a way to let all this light in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *small note: yes, I played myself by falling in love with the idea of Sirian being Dahlia's brother before I actually reread the script of "Broken" ten minutes ago and realized it didn't make sense. But it stayed. dealwithit.jpg (with a respectful please)


	11. Before You Walk Through Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Apologies for the delay - life's busy! A bit of a shorter one this time...I did the thing again where I wrote too much and had to split a chapter. Its second part is almost done, and trust me, you'll be glad for the ~room for content~ splitting this provides for the next one. (that's me convincing you to stick around.) Look for it soon!

Even in a precarious world, time passed with every beat of the Mother Confessor’s pure heart. Over and over, iteration after iteration, its persistent pulses marked the seconds, which rolled into minutes, and then to hours blossoming into days, until twenty-six had passed since the Mother Confessor and the Mord-Sith arrived in Aydindril.

And the equinox grew ever closer in the steady progression of its drumming. A tempest on the winds. The future in question, with its tenuousness glanced at without credence. The ground shifting under their feet, yet unmoving. Some great predicted unknown.

It was time for the preparations - though blind - to begin in earnest.

* * *

Cara glared at her reflection in the mirror and, for the third time that short morning, wondered how in every possible hell she managed to get roped into this.

The obvious answer hadn’t changed throughout the course of her repeated questioning. _Kahlan_ was how she managed to get roped into this. Kahlan, getting under Cara’s skin with her encouraging words and her soft, deliberate smile and her relentless hopeful ambition, even with everything around them in flux. This was Kahlan’s fault entirely. Cara deepened her scowl, because she felt like she should have. Her mirrored counterpart matched the expression, but Cara didn’t feel it quite as clearly as she saw it. She barely felt it at all.

At this point, though, it didn’t matter whether or not this was Kahlan’s fault. Cara had agreed. She had agreed, and now there was no chance to slip back on the agreement. The largest share of the new recruit troops had amassed in Aydindril; training was finally set to begin that day, following an inaugural address by the Mother Confessor herself at the sixth morning bell. It was nearly that time now - no chance for Cara to escape her choice or her fate.

With another hard stare in the mirror, Cara decided that she looked ready. Tight braid, full leathers, lined eyes. She tried a sneer and it came naturally, like she had not missed a step since the last time she was set to train whatever poor wretched bastard had made the mistake of affronting Darken Rahl. There had been plenty of them to go around.

Of course, she wouldn’t be using any of those methods here - the vast majority of them would probably not be met with Kahlan’s approval. But that did not mean she planned to go _easy_ on any of the new blood. That would be a disservice to everyone, and an affront to herself. Altogether unacceptable and nowhere near her standards. No, she was going to do this properly, if she was going to be forced to do it at all. (If she had _agreed_ to do it at all, she reminded herself with a burst of frustration.) Because _properly_ was the only way Richard would want this done, the only way Kahlan wanted it done. Because the world was different and this was who she was who she was apparently becoming, crammed into all of these uncomfortable spaces, shedding her skin and dealing with all of the sensitive, raw feelings that followed, making her feel so soft-bellied and tame.

A breaking took pain, transformation took time. Everything took time. Kahlan needed time. Time was passing. Cara knew this. And all of it still hurt, still made her feel like she was being dragged. So did the rest of it: Richard, gone, Shota, ambiguous and infuriating, Dennee, always glowering, Kahlan, wanting but not touching.

But little by little, each day was beginning to feel just a bit less gnawing.

And there was no further need to seek any escape from it all at Ambrosio’s. When Cara woke up thinking about it once or twice, she banished the thoughts upon manifestation. She had been drained, confused. But she still had discipline, she had purpose. She had strayed, she had allowed herself to be weak, but then she had remembered. There was so much to remember, even when remembering was near-impossible.

Cara did not need Ambrosio’s.

She had Kahlan’s bed, instead, and the dizzying mix of sensation that accompanied the act of being in it with her. Quiet assurance, wordless, inexplicable stillness. A tangible tether to whatever was on the other side of the hazy divide within herself.

Whenever either of them wanted, which was more often than not, they shared Kahlan’s bed. Chaste, always nearly a league apart in the bed’s expanse. (It felt that far, at least.) Sometimes closer, admittedly, close enough to reach out a hand and touch. But ever close _enough_ , never in the way for which Cara’s body was crying out. But _not close enough_ was better than _not there at all_. It was also better than that gouging feeling the visit to Dahlia’s bed had left in her middle.

Whatever connection exited between them was still tenuous, still undefined. It was still wrapped in silent, simmering glances, and in Kahlan’s overt, yet somehow still discreet, smiles, meant only for her. It was wrapped in _I want you with me, but I need time_. In _I don’t know what came over me_ and _it’s all new for me_. Time was passing, but time was uncertain, the newness was uncertain. And while nothing about the uncertainty was comfortable, nothing Cara was made of had been forged in comfort. It only made sense that the next breaking would be uncomfortable, too.

Nothing strong came from comfort. Nothing that lasted long. Cara knew this well already. She had to stand to it, with fists and a sneer, reflected perfectly in the mirror, no matter how it shredded her inside.

The sudden loud knocking on her chamber door did not startle Cara, but she did make a quick turn at the unexpected sound.

“Palace courier,” the visitor announced from the other side of the door. “A message for you.”

Cara frowned as she opened the door. The uniformed servant had been smiling, but it faded somewhat as he took in all the austere leather and general sharpness that Cara had donned that morning. Blinking, tongue-tied, he abruptly held out a wax-sealed, folded piece of parchment, along with a small box. Cara glanced down at the offered items and then back up to the pale-faced page boy.

“What’s this?”

“A message from the Mother Confessor.” Clearing his throat helped him manage to get the words out without squeaking. “One for each of the recruit commanders. You, ah, yours has this box, too. The rest didn’t. I was told to make sure you received it.”

The relief evaporating from the courier was nearly palpable when Cara took the offered items without further question or staring. Nodding his dismissal, she closed the door, hearing him scurry down the corridor just below the threshold of what could have been considered _at a run_. She smirked. At least intimidation would not be difficult that day.

The parchment was held together by a wax-stamped seal of Aydindril. She broke it easily with a gloved thumb, flipped the page open, and read. The brief message at the top of the page was written in a neat hand, each letter distinct and bold.

_From the Office of the Mother Confessor:_

_I offer you my deepest and sincerest gratitude for your promised efforts to come in preparing our newest soldiers. With your hard-earned experience, proven strength, and strong leadership, I am beyond confident in the success of their cultivation and their future ability to serve and protect the Midlands in the face of whatever is to come. Your country and the entirety of the Midlands Alliance are sure to be proud of what you will accomplish in this ambitious, noble endeavor._

_With profound appreciation,_

_Kahlan Amnell_

Cara squinted at Kahlan’s signature. It was just as ridiculously elegant as she herself was when conducting any formal business as the Mother Confessor. A far cry from what Cara had experienced during their long travel, yet still so singularly _Kahlan_ that it made her hands throb.

There was more written at the bottom of the page. The next portion was longer, and in the same hand, but with different penmanship. Sloppier. Written more fluidly, naturally, from the heart instead of from careful repeated motion.

_Cara,_

_I am not sure I have the words to convey how thankful I am for you and your presence here in Aydindril, but I am going to try anyway. I_ am _sure, though, that you’re already rolling your eyes in exasperation at my attempt. I hope you keep reading. I know I was emphatic in my asking you to be a part of this, and while I hope you did not feel unduly coerced, I don’t regret it. It means so much to me that you agreed and that you are forging a path here, in my home. Your home, now, too (remember that). Even if I had to help convince you to do so._

_In the box is a small token of my appreciation, and a reflection of what I’m trying to say - something I hope you’ll bear in your work here. I would have given it to you in person, but I understand that it’s something that needs to be your choice only. I want to give you the space you need to decide for yourself._

_Looking back, it’s clear that you chose to follow Richard of your own volition and strong conviction, even if I did not see it at the time - even if you didn’t, either. I know you saw him as a strong and worthy man, and a friend, bond or no bond. You served him so incredibly well. While you might hold that it was merely what was expected of you, it was not unnoticed. And now, I hope you’ll choose me, too. I hope that I’m correct in thinking that you see this cause as worthy of your time and steadfast dedication, just as following Richard was. (And I know how very dedicated you are.)_

_I’ll see you out there today - hopefully displaying acceptance of my gift. But that’s a decision I leave to you. Whatever you choose will have no bearing on how we are - I promise._

_Thank you, for everything._

_Yours,_

_Kahlan_

Cara stared at the note’s closing until her eyes and chest ached as one.

 _Yours_.

Kahlan was not hers. That much was still certain. The word itself was simple, but nothing else about it was, or would ever be. But the word was there regardless, ludicrous, scrawled in ink, put there by Kahlan’s own hand, screaming at her with all she couldn’t have. All that was out of her reach, on the other side of the bed. A league away.

Cara swallowed, steeled her jaw, and put the note aside, forcing herself to move onto the next thing through the splintering feeling. She focused her suddenly-frayed attention on the box instead. It was flat, and just wider than her palm. With a huff of disdain at the idea of being gifted a trinket or bauble like some simpering maiden, Cara flicked the lid open and picked up the glimmering object the action revealed. She held it between her thumb and forefinger as she studied it.

It was a breastpin, finely-made, about the size of her middle finger. Gold, feeling genuine between her fingertips, with delicate blue filigree. The cruciform paddle-shaped seal of Aydindril glinted there in her gingerly as it caught the morning sunlight spilling through her chamber window. The same as the symbol pressed into the wax of the letter she had just read; the same as the symbol carved into the First Chair, its magnanimity looming over Kahlan’s head each time she took her seat of duty.

And now, Kahlan wanted it to mark Cara, too.

She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the way her stomach was tying itself into a mighty knot. A year ago, she would have faced dire consequences for merely holding the pin without the clear intent to crush it under her boot. Let alone to be harboring even the weakest consideration of wearing it. Something in the thought of it launched her into an instinctive bout of shuddering.

But the world was different. And Kahlan’s past words kept coming back, like they always did, barreling through her at every incessant opportunity.

_It’s a hard world we live in, Cara. You don’t get many chances._

This different world was still a hard world. And Cara had already staggered through one second chance, only half-realizing it, though she had let herself fight against it with every ounce of her being. Fracturing her bones, resisting the calm reshaping of Richard, Zedd and Kahlan’s gentle influence. She had the phantom pains and the deep scars to prove it.

She had already earned more chances than she deserved.

And then, her own voice, thin and ragged from lack of air.

_I was trained to hate you. But, I don’t._

The lack of depth to her statement was almost laughable now, in the most devastating way. There was a great cleft between _not hate_ and all of the things clawing their way out of her chest now.

She rolled the pin back and forth, slowly, between the tips of her fingers. Watching the way the light swept over it and bounced away, with brilliant shine.

_You don’t get many chances._

This was another chance. Another absurd way to be shaped into something else. She had no idea how she had gotten so many. Another choice to make. She wondered if there was any possible merciful limit to the number she would have to make.

_I hope you’ll choose me, too._

Cara was Mord-Sith - maybe one of the last of her kind. But what other choice was even fathomable? Kahlan was not hers, but Kahlan had her forever.

If this was part of that forever, so be it. Let it hurt. Let it break her. Her stomach was still roiling. Let it send her thrashing through becoming something else. Becoming something to Kahlan. If that was even possible.

Cara made sure her hands did not shake as she clasped the seal to the leather at her chest, just below the edge of her neck guard. A dizzy feeling came over her as she did - a basic motion causing a wicked rush of _something_ , of everything. Every pore of her body flowed with it. She felt it on her skin; she felt it deeper inside. Feeling disconnected from her body, Cara looked at herself in the mirror one final time. The pin caught the light as she did. Cara swallowed, blinked, and gaped at the newness gaping right back at her.

The pin felt much heavier than it looked. Heavier than it was.

But Cara had a strong back, strong shoulders. She could carry plenty of weight.

* * *

Prince Fyren of Kelton took a deep breath, held it for a brief moment, then let it go in a drawn-out hiss. He touched the back of his neck with one hand, allowing the other to rest on the pommel of his sword. Sucked his teeth, furrowed his brow. Opened his mouth to speak to his fellows, but let it fall closed again without a word.

Despite the fact that he had said absolutely nothing, and despite the fact that sharing space with his infuriating existence was sending her near to seething, Cara had to agree with him. No explanation was necessary as the commanders and contributors looked out at the massive crowd of recruits gathered in the palace courtyard for training. Each among the multitude looked wide-eyed and nervous, some chattering anxiously in small groups, others just standing and _staring_ , trembling in their boots.

This was going to be more complicated than Cara thought. It was clear why Councilor Thurstan’s suggestion was necessary.

“Well.” Fyren finally managed to find at least one word. “They certainly are…”

“Young?” another one of the officers suggested.

“ _Children_ ,” Cara muttered in quiet, grim counter. The other men peered at her, shocked that she had spoken. But a few of them promptly shrugged in wordless concurrence as she held their dubious gazes with an upright chin.

Because Cara was right. They _were_ children. It was like an entire sea of children sprawled before them - so many boys, most of them likely not even seventeen years of age. At a cursory glance, she could count the number of them with passable beards on one hand. A few here and there had grown into their muscles and skeletons, but most had not; they were still either awkwardly tall and lanky-limbed, with hands too big for their bodies, or they were still rosy-cheeked and chubby, waiting to stretch out and let their weight redistribute. But despite the wide range of immature body shapes, they all had a common expression of anxious fright smeared all over their faces.

Captain Abernathy of Galea ran a thumb over his graying mustache before pinching his chin between his fingers. “We got what we asked for, I suppose.” He waggled his eyebrows at Fyren and the rest of them. “A bunch of brats who probably haven’t even laid eyes on a tit since their mothers’.”

The men chortled at the presumably-true comment. Cara pursed her lips.

“Abernathy is right.” One of the Anderith guard captains nodded his agreement. “I can see it in their eyes, in the way they fidget. I’m willing to wager not one of these boys has had a woman yet.”

“If they _had_ ,” Cara suggested in snarky, drawling tone, “they probably wouldn’t look so terrified now, having already faced something much more daunting.”

All were uneasy for a long moment before Cara smirked. One lieutenant cracked a guffaw at the immediate dissipation of the tension, sending the rest of them into broken laughter. Save for Fyren. Cara’s smirk deepened until she noticed him glaring at her. Cara let her face fall, too, to stare back at him.

“The Mord-Sith also speaks truly,” Abernathy noted with another wave of his brow. Cara mirrored his gesture.

Fyren doled out a clipped hush to him and the rest of the group, gesturing towards the courtyard balcony with his chin. “Quiet. The Mother Confessor speaks.” The same halting fell over the flurried buzz of the crowd as boys elbowed each other and gestured in the same direction as Fyren. As Cara looked up at the balcony, she readied herself for the inevitable seizing in her lungs upon seeing Kahlan acting as the Mother Confessor. And there she was, commanding a view over all of them from above - the pure white of her dress gleamed in the morning light, reflecting and glowing, seeming to be lit both from the outside and from within. Her light seemed to deepen the shadows of everything else around her. Upon seeing her, Cara realized her preparation had been wise. She made herself breathe, and her faltering lungs filled. On the exhale, she went to one knee and bowed her head. Not because she _wanted_ to, but because everyone else around her had. It was the proper option. She could feel the breastpin at her chest, the seal of Aydindril branding her in gold.

“Rise, my children.” Kahlan’s pleasant, steady voice projected out over the genuflecting audience. Cara’s eyes rose as she did, looking back up at Kahlan. A wide smile had broken across her face, one that made it hard for Cara to swallow. She was radiant, regal. Her eyes glittered clear blue as they swept over the assembly; her gently-curled, carefully-pinned hair fluttered as it caught a light breeze. It was a stark transformation from the sleepy, bed-headed woman Cara had left still dozing hours earlier - but both were equally alluring. Cara’s hands twitched, and she cracked her knuckles to get rid of the sensation.

“Young men of the Midlands,” Kahlan began her address over the silence of all congregated, “it brings me great joy to finally have you all gathered here this morning. You have each answered the call - _my_ call, the call of the Midlands - to train and to fight for your land, for every free people within our borders. We have already faced unspeakable hardship throughout the course of the past year and a half, and now, we face an unknown future. You are part of that future. In your answering, and in your appearance today, I can only assume that you are up to the task.”

A number of the boys rumbled their agreement and preparedness. Others pressed on the previous heights of apprehension shown on their faces.

“Before you begin your hard work today, I ask you: look at each of the faces surrounding you.” The recruits hesitated, blinking up at Kahlan. She lifted her arms to urge them to heed her words, and they did, some of them laughing uncomfortably as they stared at one another. “These are the men with whom you will prepare. These are the men with whom you will fight, side by side, against any given enemy. Each and every one of them, no matter what land from which you hail. You are not boys anymore, from Galea, or Kelton, or Jara, or Nicobarese, or Anderith, or any of the small towns which sired you. Now, you are soldiers of the Midlands. You fight for all of us alongside your comrades.”

The novices watched her with rapt attention. So did the commanders. So did Cara.

“The charge is formidable, but I have confidence and faith in all of you.” Kahlan’s gaze swept over the line of commanders at the front, stern-faced. “You have much to learn from your superiors, and I know you will take in their knowledge with eagerness.” Her eyes lingered on Cara when they came across her, dipping for just a second and then pausing to betray a tiny smile, and Cara knew Kahlan had seen the pin glinting on her leathers. Cara could have folded entirely in half right there, in front of everyone. (She didn’t, of course, but she _could_ have.) “Listen to them and trust them. Each has served their office well and has a wealth of experience to share with you.”

Kahlan let quiet fall in over the grounds as her voice echoed into nothingness. The bright smile regained purchase as she prepared to conclude her thoughts. “I look forward to watching you hone your skills. The sun’s strength this morning conveys the hope I now feel for our land, seeing you all here and ready. I know you will make me, your commanders, your homelands, the Midlands, and yourselves proud.”

A collective roar rolled from the crowd, the recruits finally letting go of some of their nervous energy, wrapped up in and overcome by all of the Mother Confessor’s promises and praise. High up on the balcony, she grinned at their sudden tenacity, allowing them the brief sublimation before she quieted them again with a single hand.

“Your Head Commander will address you now.”

Prince Fyren saluted her with a fist to his chest before turning to face the masses.

“Recruits.” His voice boomed out over the recruits. A few cringed, unprepared for the surprising volume. “You each received a colored token upon your arrival. This color designates your squad, the group with which you will train over the next several moons.” Immediately, the boys began gabbing amongst themselves, comparing their tokens and seeing if any of their friends or acquaintances had a match. Fyren silenced them with a sharp whistle and a glare. They all paled, collectively. “Each commander standing with me has a matching token.” Cara glanced down at the blue disk in her palm and sighed. “Your squad commander is your home base, your advocate, and your worst nightmare. We want you to succeed and reflect well on us. In the same vein, If you act like fools, it will only be an embarrassment to them. And nobody standing here takes kindly to embarrassment.” He gestured to the line behind him. “You will rotate between us for different training exercises - myself for blade work, Captain Abernathy for mounted warfare, Lieutenant Leiden for battle tactics, the Mother Confessor’s Mord-Sith for hand-to-hand contact and general conditioning, and so on. But your squad commander will also train you in archery. Plenty of opportunity for _unlucky accidents_ if you humiliate them in front of another commander with any untoward behavior.”

Cara grinned at the thought despite herself.

“Are there any questions? I hope not. I spoke simply and clearly. If you did not understand, you might want to pack up now.”

The recruits seemed to understand, or were too petrified, once again, to indicate that they did not. Fyren gave them a hard stare, holding it for probably longer than necessary, before nodding.

“Now, find your leaders. Red tokens, to me.”

* * *

“Bradley Ryan, of Galea! It’s an honor to meet you and to be on your squad, ma’am.”

Cara’s hands settled on her hips as she squinted at the one stretched out toward her, and then up at the young man’s grinning face. Her glare caused his smile to wilt, but only in a small way - just a bit of brightness leaving his vivid blue eyes, pleasant expression suddenly looking strained on his handsome square jaw. Getting the hint, he brought the hand to his heart in a fist, instead, before running his other hand through his hair in chagrin. Cara raised a single eyebrow and pulled her mouth tight. Better.

Cara studied Bradley Ryan in silence as he stood frozen in salute. He was one of the older ones, just a head taller than her, one of the ones grown more into his body. The only one smiling, the only one looking even a bit prepared. The only one bold enough to introduce himself, no matter how informal or presumptuous.

The rest of Cara’s squad of twenty were much softer-looking, she decided. A handful each of Galeans and Keltans, six Anders, one from Jara, two from Mardovia. Each looking clueless. And this was just her own squad; there were a dozen more just like it scattered across the palace grounds, full of clueless little boys.

Cara knew she had her work cut out for her with these children.

She gave Bradley a single nod, finally allowing him to release the stiff position, before she spoke past him.

“You may call me Mistress Cara.” She smirked, realizing how very long it had been since she had uttered those words in that order. Her voice was steady, but sharp. “I have high expectations of each of you. When you’re called upon, you will respond with immediacy and respect. When I ask a question, you will answer. When you train with me, you will work until your back aches. You will bleed. You will break. You will cry - just do not _dare_ to do it in front of me, because if I see you crying, your tears will become my goal.” She flared her nostrils. “You will _not_ embarrass me in any way, shape, or form when dealing with the other commanders. You’ve already been warned of that. And I am not bound by the same code of honor as the rest of them. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

The boys stared.

Bradley cleared his throat.

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

Cara squared up to him, moving too swiftly for him to expect it, face inches from his.

“Pardon?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes, Mistress Cara!” he corrected himself, strong of voice, nodding briskly, looking over his shoulder and urging the other boys to respond the same. They did, some of them squeaking just a bit in the process.

Good enough, Cara thought.

“We start now.” Her first order was firm, imposing. An Agiel was not necessary for this. She moved Bradley back into line with a quick shove at his shoulder. “Find a partner. One you think you could best in a bare-knuckle fight. I am ready to see what you think you’re made of. I hope you don’t put me back to sleep.”

Her squad hesitated for just a bit too long before they slowly sorted themselves into reluctant pairs.

Cara took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose, before straightening, eyeing her boys like a hawk. So much to work on, building from zero. She suspected it would not be long until she witnessed the first display of tears.


	12. Threw My Atoms at You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...aaaand here's that part 2.

By the end of their first day of training, two of Cara’s recruits cried. Four vomited from exertion, four had to get splints for broken fingers. Six bled. All of them sweat, including Cara, having worked through the hottest hours of the waning summer day.

They were dismissed to barrack and mess at the mark of late afternoon. The day was not a collective disaster; to the contrary, it went better than Cara expected, considering the first thing she had to do was teach them how to correctly throw a paltry punch. It was arduous work, but satisfying. The deep soreness in her muscles after hours of repeated physical demonstration was familiar and gratifying. As she left the grounds, all she wanted to do was draw a bath and eat a hot, hearty meal.

But as she approached her quarters, she was stopped by a steward who let her know the Mother Confessor had requested her presence in her chambers as soon as possible.

Cara gave him a weary sigh and glare. “I will be there as soon as I get some of this grime off me. Tell her that while she may be the Mother Confessor, she can have patience.”

The steward looked rankled at Cara’s perceived insolence, but departed to deliver the message all the same.

When she had shed her armored pieces and was suitably freshened, Cara made her gradual way to the Mother Confessor’s chambers. Mikhail, Kahlan’s posted guard, looked up at her approach. Cara had become cordial, if not near to companionable, with him through their frequent interactions over the past few weeks. He greeted her with the closest thing to a smile he could manage while still looking stoic.

“Mistress Cara,” he addressed her, standing aside from the door. She nodded in return, stepping past him to enter. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

“ _They’ve_?” Cara asked, pausing with her hand on the brass knob, looking at him from the side of her eye.

“The Mother Confessor, the Second Confessor, and Wizard Alferon. They’ve been hard at work for a few hours. I believe they’re hoping another set of eyes will speed up their efforts.”

Mikhail’s reply provided more questions rather than clarification, but Cara didn’t press him on their _efforts_. It wouldn’t matter. Her mind was already racing after the answer to why Kahlan would call her there with those two. Particularly Dennee - blatant cold between them had made only the most shallow attempts to thaw. She poised herself, putting on her most neutral face, and opened the door.

Kahlan’s solar had never been in such sheer disarray.

Piles and stacks of dusty books littered the floor. Some were huge, some were tiny but nearly humorously thick, some were falling apart at the spine. But each one of them looked dense and dull. Kahlan, Alferon, and Dennee were seated at the long meeting table, each poring over one of the many tomes, scanning and turning the delicate pages with deep focus.

Kahlan noticed Cara’s entrance first and glanced up at her, immediately beaming, eyes crinkling at the corners. The look of it cut straight through Cara, making her forget the confusion, the consternation, and her aching shoulders. It all washed away for just a moment. Alferon blinked up at her too, then, with that curious but genial twinkling in his eyes. Dennee just stared at her, straight-faced. Her child was sitting quietly at her feet, chewing on a wood-carved horse.

Kahlan stood and bid her to the table, still smiling broadly. “How was it?”

Cara sighed and answered honestly. “Infuriating. But only at times, and less often than I was expecting. Warm, with plenty of perspiration. The children smelled downright unpleasant by the end of it.”

“It’s the age,” Alferon pointed out with a helpless shrug.

Kahlan laughed. “They are young, aren’t they? I’m sure you were great with them, Cara. Though I hope you didn’t make any cry for their mothers just yet. It's only day one.”

“Only two of them, by the end of it.” Cara pointed at the assemblage strewn all around. “What unfortunate library did the wizard manage to conjure in your chambers?” Alferon chuckled.

“The Wizard’s Keep,” Kahlan explained as Cara sat, keeping an empty chair between her and Dennee, who had pointedly returned her attention to the writings before her. “We’re looking through the codexes for anything that might help us unravel Shota’s prophecy. And they weren’t conjured, we carried them ourselves. This is as many as the servants could help us with this morning. We certainly could have used your assistance then.”

Cara scoffed. “I’m not a pack mule.”

“Of course you’re not,” Kahlan agreed in a voice that sounded drenched in appeasement. “Your brawn is always useful, but right now, I’m more interested in your brain. Pick a book and get started. We have a _lot_ to get through.”

* * *

Not thirty minutes later, Cara wished she could have just been the pack mule.

She could not fathom how the others were so absorbed in the task, heads altogether buried in their books, methodically examining and flipping pages at such a steady tempo that there was an audible rhythm to it. It must have been commonplace for them, two Confessors and a wizard, surrounded by books and engaged in study. Cara hated to read. She hated to read _more_ when the pages were all but disintegrating at her touch, the lettering smeared and illegible, sometimes even in languages she didn’t understand. She had skimmed through nearly half of the (small) codex she had picked, but had not seen a single reference to tempests, storms, winds, equinoxes, or any of those other arbitrary words that had flowed nonsensically from Shota’s mouth. Her head throbbed. She drew in a deep breath, removed her gloves, and rubbed her face with both hands.

“Everything alright?” Kahlan did not even glance up from her own work to ask.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Cara growled through clenched teeth, entirely frustrated, glaring down at the unintelligible words. “I just can’t read _High D’Haran._ ”

“So put that book aside and choose a new one.”

Cara rolled her eyes at Kahlan with such exaggerated fervor that she could have injured herself.

As she began to stalk around the room, looking for the most unimposing volume she could scrounge up, Alferon spoke. “Kahlan, your conviction is admirable. But I won’t shy from saying that this is quite an arduous undertaking. How many of these can we blindly thumb through?”

“You say you trust the witch woman, but this seems like an impossible search,” Dennee agreed, taking a moment to massage the side of her neck with one hand and her pregnant belly with the other.

Kahlan’s face was gravely straight as she looked up. She placed her palms on the table and moved her gaze between the two of them.

“I don’t trust _Shota_. I trust her words. I’ve watched them come to life and play out before my eyes. Prophecies about _me_ \- things I didn’t realize I was doing until I had done them. Do you have any idea how unnerving that feels?”

Cara, pulling a book from the middle of a stack, watched Kahlan. Her eyes had darkened, mouth turned down, voice grim.

“I’ve been trying to think up a better way to do this. But for now, this is what we have, and we must try it. If Richard couldn’t see this through to the end, we have to. _I_ have to.”

The comments were smothered as Kahlan let out a shaking breath and returned to her reading. Dennee and Alferon, looking abashed, followed suit. Cara stood frozen, book in hand, feeling like every drop of her blood had been drained at the sound of Richard’s name. The hollowness of it never lapsed, like tearing fresh scar tissue right open. The healing was still so incomplete. It all was incomplete. And Cara knew Kahlan felt it, too, the tearing and the jolt. There was envy in the realization, and guilt, and an utter threatening sadness, trying to fracture her ribs. And _I have to, too. With you_.

But none of them were spoken or shown. Cara could only force measured motion through the vertigo, taking her seat once again and cracking the cover of this next book.

The heavy silence continued. Pages shuffled, lungs sighed.

Cara made it through eight pages before her concentration was broken by an unexpected grabbing touch at her leg.

Suppressing the reflexive urge to jump, she looked down to see Dennee’s child grasping for dear life to the leather covering her thigh, having apparently fumbled over to her and now using her to keep his balance. The boy had been so quiet and well-behaved that Cara had forgotten he was even there. But he _was_ there, and was clinging to Cara, and absolutely nothing good would come of that.

“Oh,” was all Cara could say, a clipped voice betraying the sudden rush of apprehension clawing at her throat.

“Oh, Edrand,” Dennee exclaimed, reaching for him, but she was too far away to get her hands on him quickly enough. The little whelp was tipping over on wobbly legs, his tiny hands unable to find purchase on Cara’s tight garments. Without thinking, reacting from something deeper inside, Cara reached down and caught him under the arms, steadying him, but then realized she couldn’t let go or he would just continue his fall. She swallowed hard, blinking, trying to think of the best way out of this before Dennee completely lost her mind and ended it all. The history hung over them like an angry storm cloud - Valeria, and all of the disgusting regret she felt for it. Another despicable past deed standing in the way of what she wanted. A different son. The black, choppy water.

Edrand looked up at her, dark eyes wide but not frightened, and grinned.

“Oh,” Cara said again, stiff-armed, still holding him upright. “Oh. Um, hello.”

She must have pulled some kind of face because the boy’s noiseless smile turned into delighted, burbling giggles. There were three other sets of eyes on them, then, and without looking, Cara felt them each distinctly: one totally overwrought and petrified, one idly amused, and one enthralled and _burning_.

The last was the one Cara felt in her backbone.

“He likes you, Cara.” Kahlan’s voice, coy and breathy and teasing, made Cara turn and lose the staring contest with the babe. She was glowing again, clear of all the previous tension, but with a different kind of darkness in her eyes that Cara was too strained to place. “He’s laughing at you.”

Yes, the laughter was very clear. Cara wanted very much to disappear into the floor. Dennee probably wanted the same, to have her be ground into dust - the other Confessor was frozen, nearly glowering at her sister.

Instead of crumbling into blessed nothingness, Cara swallowed hard again and heard herself speak.

“Sure. He’s, ah, how old is he?” she stammered and instantly hated it. But she kept talking, without waiting for an answer. “He’s grown...larger. And some more hair. Since I last saw him. And he, he seems to...walk? Somewhat. Not very well, clearly. But he’ll practice. I think he’ll be able to, eventually.” Someone needed to just end this. She begged for it in a silent scream. Edrand let out another gleeful laugh, lurching in her hands. _Why_ in the name of creation was she still holding him? “No, rather, he _will_ be able to. He’ll have strong legs. I think.” Spirits take her, someone _help_ her. “He’s, ah, he’s a handsome child. And quiet. Quiet is preferable.” She’d have to help herself. “But I think he wants his mother back, now? So.”

By the time Cara shut herself up and gave her throat a compulsive clearing, Dennee had carefully plucked him from her grip and scooped him into her lap, where he quickly occupied himself with patting the pages of the codex in front of them.

“I apologize.” Dennee’s tone was rigid, haunted, and she didn’t give Cara regard as she spoke.

Cara controlled her own voice carefully as she replied. “Don’t. He’s not an imposition.” It came out more genuinely than she had expected.

They all returned to diligent perusing. Cara’s heart beat finally calmed, discomfort evaporating from her as the seconds rolled by.

But every so often, she felt these furtive glances from Kahlan searing into her without mercy, making her grip the book just a bit tighter.

* * *

The search went on fruitlessly for another few hours. The others had made it through two volumes each since Cara had arrived. Cara had almost finished one. But it wasn’t a competition.

Dennee was the first to depart, preparing to receive Fyren in their chambers at the conclusion of his duties for the day. She embraced Kahlan as she left. Kahlan gave Edrand a bunch of kisses on his cheeks, and the boy gave his aunt a babyish wave - right before tossing a more energetic wave at Cara. Cara lifted her fingers from the table in a less-energetic return, feeling silly throughout the whole gesture. Kahlan’s eyes were on her. Her wave became a bit livelier. Only a bit.

Not long after, Alferon took his leave as well, closing his third completed but unavailing codex and citing some other engagement. Cara had to wonder what sort of engagement a wizard might have entering the later evening, but she truly didn’t care enough to ask.

“You’ll stay and keep at it with me, right?” Kahlan asked her as Alferon exited. Made useless by the hopeful look on her face, Cara could only nod and hope her grimace was strictly internal.

At least Kahlan relented to the idea of taking a break for dinner when the kitchen servants arrived with their trays. Cara heard Kahlan chuckle as she nearly dove headlong into her braised beef, so starving at that point that she was seeing double. It was fine. Her laughter was a welcome sound, with the two of them alone together. Cara made sure to swallow before she spoke.

“You know I agree with you about all of this,” she told Kahlan, “but the others are also right. This is a lot of effort for no reward.” Softening the sharp edges of her opinions into gentler words was getting to be much easier, especially when Kahlan was the one receiving them.

Kahlan frowned, tearing off a chunk of bread and rolling it between her fingers, and Cara knew at once that she was uneasy because it wasn’t proper for the Mother Confessor to be playing with her food. “I know.” She let go of a weary, heaving sigh. “I just don’t know what other option we have right now, Cara. We can’t wait for the answer to come falling from the sky. And this method might be wholly impractical, but it helps me feel like I’m actually doing something to move forward.” She laughed once, without humor, just a burst of air from her nose. “I know you think that’s foolish.”

“It is foolish.” Cara raised her eyebrows and shrugged in agreement with Kahlan’s assessment. “But everything is foolish right now. And if everything is foolish, then nothing is foolish.” The last part came from her throat hoarsely but honestly. “I think you’re doing well. Even if it means that I’m forced to read this nonsense.”

Kahlan’s soft half-smile went straight through her and time stopped, just for a moment. No tempest coming. No books falling apart in her hands, no headache from concentration. Just Kahlan, and her mouth, and the way her cheeks were flushed. And how she had Cara forever.

“It makes me wish Richard was here.”

She expected it to hurt, like she always did. But it didn’t. At least not cripplingly. Hearing her speak his name was somehow less painful when it was just the two of them. A private secret, a shared connection. The way he touched both of them, coming alive again. The wound he left deep in them still burned, and fiercely, but at least it burned for both of them together.

“The wizard, too,” Cara added, in a quiet tone. “He would have at least been able to point us in some semblance of a direction.”

“And we both know Richard would have solved all of this by now.” Kahlan’s smile grew, her eyes twinkling. “He would have swung the Sword of Truth with blind abandon to pick one of these codexes, opened it to a random page, and found whatever it is we’re ruining ourselves looking for.”

Nothing in her statement stung.

Cara smirked right back. “Or,” she purred, “he would have been doing something completely asinine and unrelated to the task at hand - as usual. He would have stumbled over one of these stacks of books and fallen face-first into a coincidentally-open page, with the entire answer scratched on it in bright red ink.”

And Kahlan laughed, unbridled and weightless. She was beautiful. And Cara needed her. Body, pure heart, everything wrapped together. There wasn’t space for any other thought.

“Well, he _was_ the Seeker, in every way.” Kahlan shook her head. “I miss him.” The simplest words, the most understated meaning.

Cara agreed, more quietly. “I miss him, too. He would be impressed with you.”

“He’d be more impressed with you,” Kahlan told her. Then, a thoughtful pause. “I think he would be happy with _us_.”

A hush fell over them, then.

Cara chose not to ask what Kahlan meant. It was better left unaddressed.

Cara busied herself with the rest of her supper.

* * *

Changing into more comfortable attire later in the evening proved to be Kahlan’s downfall. Their nightclothes were too cozy for such dull work at such a late hour.

Darkness had fallen outside, save for the faint glow of the crescent moon trying to break through the windows. Kahlan had lit the torches around the huge room so they could keep working through the codexes for as long as possible.

But she was already beginning to nod off in the midst of all the browsing, eyes absent and bleary, no matter how much she tried to fight it. Cara, having finally almost made it through her second book, pouted at her from across the table.

“You need to go to bed.”

Kahlan shook herself back to alertness at Cara’s insistence. “No, I’m alright.” She yawned her way through the words. “I just need to get through the rest of this book.” She looked back down at the book lying open on the table in front of her. But after just a moment of quiet, moonlight, and flickering firelight, her eyes were drooping again, head falling forward. She jolted back upright, blinking quickly, and it would have been infuriatingly adorable if she wasn't being so infuriatingly stubborn.

“ _Kahlan_.”

“ _Cara_ ,” Kahlan said, mocking Cara’s disgruntled tone, running a hand through her hair and finding, for the third time, where she had left off.

“Bed.”

“I’m fine. I mean it. If _you_ want to go to bed, just go. I’ll be in when I’m finished.”

“You just asked me what the word _asylum_ was.” Cara scoffed. “I know very well that you can read. Much better than me. Your eyes aren’t focusing, even while you’re looking at me now. You need to close them.”

“Cara, I-”

“Just close them for ten minutes and see how you feel,” Cara suggested with an impatient sigh. “All the mysteries of the world aren’t going anywhere. I’m certain they’re trapped somewhere in this mess, if they’re here at all.”

Kahlan half-scowled at her, but her crankiness was utterly unintimidating. “Ten minutes,” she grumbled, rubbing at her temples. “Please wake me then? I don’t want to waste any time.”

Cara nodded. Kahlan yawned again, stretched, and rested her head on the open book, pillowed on her crossed forearms. Barely a minute passed before her breathing became deep and steady with needful slumber. Cara’s attention flitted between Kahlan and the words she was scanning, unable to keep her eyes off of her.

One minute turned into the promised ten, which quickly tripled into thirty. Cara shut her book, finished at last, with nary a mention of anything relevant to show for all the toil. No sense in picking out another, at this point. Kahlan was completely knocked out on the table, and Cara was tired, too.

“Kahlan,” she murmured. “You’ve been dozing for half an hour. I think we need to put this aside for the night.”

Kahlan shifted, groaned, and did not lift her head.

Cara let out a huff and pursed her lips.

“ _Kahlan_.” A harsher whisper.

“Hm.” Muffled, incoherent, tiny. Cara’s stomach tightened, and could have leaped across the table and ravished her right there. She took a quick, deep breath against the mindless urge, stamping it down like she constantly had to.

“Your neck is going to be angry with you if you stay here all night. And I wouldn’t blame it.”

“Just five minutes,” Kahlan mumbled, thick with half-sleep. “You can go to bed. Five minutes and I’ll...”

She didn’t succeed in finishing the sentence before she was drifting off again.

“I’m not leaving you sitting here.” Cara stood, shoving her chair out, and leaned over the table, palms flat on its surface, furrowing her brow at Kahlan’s refusal to move.

No response. Just heavy, drowsy breathing. Cara watched her back rise and fall with each one.

“Don’t make me _drag_ you, Mother Confessor.”

Kahlan’s sleepy breathing paused.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Her words were clearer, and were clearly daring her. Cara considered the bait with a surge of that dead-end lust.

“I wouldn’t?”

“You wouldn’t.” Kahlan peered at her with one tired eye, peeking over her forearm.

“Then it seems you don’t know me very well.” Cara left her spot, approaching Kahlan’s huddled form. “Last chance. Either you go on your own or you go over my shoulder. It’s your choice.”

The tension that erupted between their bodies in the seconds that followed made it hard for Cara’s lungs to fill, for her blood to flow. The traction was suffocating, crushing, too heavy for her shoulders. Kahlan straightened to meet her gaze, eyes suddenly no longer weary, but smoldering. Lip bitten. Cara’s skin prickled all over, gooseflesh rising under her nightshirt, and all of her threats were rendered empty. She wasn’t confident that she could make her muscles move if she even needed to. It was inconceivable how quickly Kahlan had yanked her from irritation to the throes of desperate yearning.

And Kahlan was feeling the same pressure, all controlled breathing and feverish staring.

Kahlan needed time. Time had passed, time _was_ passing with each one of their labored breaths. Everything inside of Cara twisted and snapped.

“Come to bed,” she heard herself say, separated from her words by her arousal-clouded mind, throat feeling like linen, mouth feeling like unrefined danger. The weight of her wanting was buckling her. “Kahlan.” Her name was nearly disjointed, coming forth of its own accord, just a croaked whisper.

Kahlan just nodded, looking entranced, taken by a visible shudder that almost took Cara’s knees along with it.

Their short journey to Kahlan’s bedchamber was made hastily and in silence. Both slipped into her own side of the bed, without touching or acknowledging any of it at all. But despite the adherence to routine, the moment had not passed; the unnamed buzzing between them had not faded. Their eyes were locked, pupils wide in the dim light, and a rumble of distant summer thunder underscored the split between them. Cara’s body was coursing with need and adrenaline. Every part of her throbbed and clenched - her chest, her stomach, her sex. Kahlan’s half-lidded eyes were intent and cast with longing, and Cara felt every single beat of her needy heart.

“You…” Kahlan breathed with hostile yearning.

“I what?” Cara’s mouth was dry with her need to taste Kahlan’s.

“You wore the pin.”

Kahlan smiled through her lust and it was the most enrapturing thing Cara had ever seen. More thunder. Everything around them was stopping. But there was still time, and so much wasted space on the bed between them.

Cara had to wait for the frenzy to subside before she could reply, scratchy and barely audible.

“Of course I did.” The words were formed from a new honesty which neither of them was expecting. “I don’t know what else I would do.” She didn’t. Especially lying here, now. Cara could have been lost, but here, she came across herself. In Kahlan’s bed, in Kahlan’s eyes. Maybe she was still lost.

“It thrilled me.” Kahlan reached over, breaching the divide, taking Cara’s hand. Their bare skin seemed to spark at the moment of contact.

“It had meaning to me, too.”

“ _You_ thrill me. All the time.” Kahlan’s voice had shaken as she spoke, eyes narrowing in vulnerable determination. Her fingers curled around Cara’s. “Today. Seeing you with the pin, seeing you ready to lead. Seeing you with Dennee’s little one. You...you surprise and thrill me. Every day.”

Cara was struck dumb. But mercifully she was not deaf or blind, so she could see Kahlan, see her eyes, hear these things pouring from her. So much time.

“You…” Cara tried to say something. Anything. Her voice failed.

“I what?” Kahlan all but mouthed, transfixed, for some absurd reason, by Cara.

“You.” Cara swallowed hard. There were no shreds of clever things she could say. Her cleverness was gone, lost in the way Kahlan had released her hand and was grasping at her collar. “Just...you. You.”

And then Kahlan was pulling her closer, pulling her in, bringing her in so that their mouths were set to collide. Cara allowed the one frail part of herself still clinging to sanity to speak.

“Kahlan, are you-”

“I’m in control,” Kahlan promised in a hushed plea, letting her fingers slip to Cara’s neck, and the sound of her voice and feeling of her dangerous touch sent a wicked shock straight through Cara. “I have all these feelings about your body, and about my body, and about you.” Her words came in short bursts, when she had enough air to get them out. “And I don’t know how, and so much beyond this matters, but I just want…” Her words were lost altogether. Their mouths were already almost together. And Cara wasn’t breathing, but she could feel Kahlan’s breath on her lips. Her eyes were scorching with heavy need. “Kiss me. Cara. I want you to.”

It was so easy for Cara to take Kahlan’s face into her hands and close the rest of the gap between them. It was one of the easiest things she had ever done.

Kahlan whined into Cara’s mouth at the merciful resolution of the tension **.** Her fingers flexed on Cara’s neck, so close to wrapping around her throat, forcing the rest of her body in closer. The kiss was temperate, reserved, closed-mouth - Cara did not want to push her too far. But Cara still thrummed when she felt Kahlan’s breasts, hips, and legs press against hers under the bedsheet. The space was gone, the senseless boundary breached, replaced by the faint friction between their bodies. Not enough, but still so much. Still ruinous, still enough to make Cara’s head spiral.

Kahlan writhed against Cara and gave her collar a fumbling tug, pausing to sigh before taking the initiative to engage her mouth again. Cara heard a hissed _yes_ fall into the nonexistent gap between their lips, tentative and needy. It was all the permission Cara needed to move over her, hand trailing from her cheek to her waist, and she was undone by the helpless noise Kahlan made at the deepening of the contact.

“Sit up,” she urged Kahlan in a husky whisper. Kahlan gave one weak nod and pushed herself up to sit against the padding at the head of her bed, bringing Cara with her, a willing captive of her hands and mouth. Cara made a slow, mindful move to straddle Kahlan’s lap, taking Kahlan’s trembling hands and placing them on her hips. Kissing her again, Cara couldn’t help but grin fiendishly at the way Kahlan’s grip on her body tightened.

“Touch me.” A command, moving back just far enough to stroke her knuckle across Kahlan’s lips. Kahlan’s eyes fluttered closed in the near-darkness. “I trust you. Just put your hands on me. However you want.” She needed Kahlan to feel her, to feel her there, connected in this different, uncertain world.

“Feel you,” Kahlan murmured, a half-formed thought, before there was no room for the words to vibrate between them.

It could have been seconds, hours, days, an eternity. Cara had no concept of time there in that bed, just that time was passing, in some way. Kahlan had needed time. Their foreheads were pressed together, eyes fluttering open and closed with the rise and fall of the moments’ intensity. Kissing every so often, just tiny chaste little things that left them both irrationally breathless. Cara kept her hands on Kahlan’s neck, in her hair, on her jawline, letting Kahlan’s hands explore her body, to explore all these things she never had, instead of seizing her own claim. She kept her palms and fingers in innocent places - from her hips to the small of her back, up her spine to her shoulders and back down again.

The threat of power and the practice restraint of it was flowing from every one of Kahlan’s desperate pores. All that was exuding from her own was ridiculous desire. She could feel Kahlan’s heaving chest, nipples hard under the thin material of her nightclothes, and Cara knew Kahlan could feel the same from her. Every inch of her was aflame with pangs of abject arousal. Their shared wanting had become so palpable, so impossible to ignore.

Kahlan’s cautious but hungry touches were making it so that Cara had to use her last shreds of self-control not to trap Kahlan’s thigh between hers and grind against it, relieving some of the overwhelming build-up. But that would be too far. That needed to come from Kahlan, first, if it ever would, as her hands inched up Cara’s back again, bringing her in for another searing kiss.

Cara’s mind began to wander through the compelling overload of contact. She wondered how Kahlan looked while she was coming, wondered if she had even ever let herself come before. It just made Cara need her more, if that was even possible. Knowing that Kahlan had never been filled, knowing that this Kahlan had no memory of that night with Richard. She wanted to be the first one Kahlan felt inside of her. _Spirits,_ she wanted it so badly she could have shattered.

Kahlan’s hands had traveled to Cara’s ribs, just under her breasts. Before Cara could whisper for her to feel them, she dug her fingertips into the exertion-sore muscles at the blades of her shoulders, and Cara groaned out loud at the sensation. Kahlan moaned, too, loudly, reacting purely and instinctively to Cara’s pleasured sound. Cara needed to see the look in Kahlan’s eyes as she filled her, needed to hear her cry out as her orgasm crashed over her. Needed her quivering, wild, defenseless, bare-boned, at the mercy of her hands. She needed Kahlan’s heart and its capacity for everything Cara wasn’t. She needed that word she felt, never spoken but still thundering, she needed it back and magnified.

And it was another dose in a lifetime of torture, because she couldn’t.

Kahlan was not hers. The world was in flux. Nothing was known. Kahlan had the Midlands, Kahlan her duty, Kahlan had to conceive and bear a child, had to continue the line of Confessors. Cara could never be enough. But right now, Kahlan and her coiling body and begging hold were telling her that she was. So Cara just kissed her again, hoping against hope that Kahlan could feel her need and that _word_ breaking through at least feebly, coming from her lips in one way instead of the other. And that it could be enough, that _she_ could be enough, even just for whatever was happening in that bed. Kahlan’s hands grabbed at Cara’s hips and forced them closer, insistent, deliberate, pressing their bodies together where they both craved it, and Cara shuddered at the swell of pleasure pulsing from the perfect friction.

But it was all just another mixed signal. Cara felt it slipping away.

Kahlan was retreating, drawing her head back, creating too much distance for their mouths to meet again. Cara let out a crestfallen hiss and wanted to beg Kahlan to keep going, but she couldn’t. She opened her eyes to see Kahlan’s squeezed tight shut. Biting her lower lip so hard she could have drawn blood, she panted, obviously fighting fearfully to regain control of herself and her power. But her fingers were still digging into Cara’s hips with a vengeance, keeping her close, and Cara hoped they would bruise her. Hoped they would mark her.

“Cara,” Kahlan finally gasped, sounding like she hadn’t inhaled in a century.

“Kahlan.” Just a wretched, defeated, subdued muttering.

“I want to keep kissing you, and touching you.” While Kahlan’s eyes were wild, her voice was mostly controlled. But it was tinged with arousal and affection and anger and anguish and a thousand other things Cara couldn’t elucidate. “I want to kiss and touch you, more than this. But if I kiss you the way I _want_ to kiss you-” and here she shuddered, _hard,_ before reigning herself in again, “-if I kiss you the way I want to kiss you, I know I’ll feel all of my good judgement slipping away.” There was a sharp crack at the end, one fraught with guilt and despair.

And Cara was reminded of the reality where nothing was simple, and nothing was easy.

With one final deep breath, she moved from Kahlan’s lap to her proper spot on the featherbed. “I understand.” It was like an axe splitting her, but she understood. She didn’t have any other choice. “I can go. I won’t stay if it’s too strenuous for you.”

Kahlan shook her head with vehemence, sudden frustrated tears misting her eyes. “No. _No_ , Cara. I want you here. There are so many things I don’t know, but I am sure of that.” There was still so much energy coursing and twisting between them, left passed-over, welling up in Kahlan’s gaze. “I’m trying. I’m really trying. And I’m _so_ sorry, Cara. I hate this, so much.” She paused to center herself through the turmoil, and the fragile look on her face tore Cara at her seams. “If it doesn’t make you feel awful, please stay. Hold me. Just be here with me.”

Cara could only nod. She would do what Kahlan needed. The other needs were there, and they were screaming with their impossibility. But this need was one for which she could be enough.

Melting with relief and exhaustion, Kahlan turned on her side, facing away from Cara. “Please. Come here.”

Cara approached her, curling against her back, fitting her knees into the angled space created by Kahlan’s. The contact was softer, gentler, but no less stirring. Not all they wanted, but still so much closer. With a soft hum, Kahlan reached back for Cara’s wrist, guiding Cara’s hand to the outside of her bare thigh. Her skin burned under Cara’s palm. Her fingers found and skirted over the jagged white scar there, the one made by her own Agiel so long ago. The memory of that night came roaring back - so very different from this night, but also similar in so many harrowing ways. Facing the same absence. Being awash with incertitude. Being so blisteringly alone with Kahlan.

But this time, Kahlan was in her arms. Neither of their hearts would slow. It was dizzy, it was like a breaking resolve, it was unreal, being fettered to one another like this. To have something to rely on.

“Is this alright?” Cara asked in a hoarse whisper as she stroked the scar.

Kahlan pressed her body back into Cara. “It feels nice. Please don’t stop.” She was already slurring with sleepiness. Such an effortless motion, such a drastic effect. Cara kept running her fingertips over the scar until Kahlan was soothed to sound sleep - it did not take long.

But sleep was much more elusive for Cara, even with Kahlan’s warm weight snug against her. Her body was still keyed up, tangled in adrenaline and yearning and harboring an unstoppable hammering heart. She lay there for as long as she could stand it before she started to squirm - she tried to harness her breathing, to force herself to drift off, to focus on how exhausted her body was instead of how her mind was racing. It was futile. She couldn’t stay still, but she couldn’t keep fidgeting and risk waking Kahlan, either.

She couldn’t stay in the bed.

With more gentleness than she thought she could muster, she removed herself from the bed. Kahlan cringed once at the loss of contact, but then settled again, blissfully elsewhere.

Cara was not elsewhere. She was right here, in the turmoil of everything, as always.

If she was going to be awake, she might as well make herself useful.

With one last lingering look at Kahlan, she slipped out of the bedroom.

The torches were still lit in the solar, casting eerie shadows all over the expansive room. It was so quiet, too, including Cara’s bare footfalls. All at once, she felt uneasy, with no precursor. It chilled her. Her gaze fell on the huge tome Kahlan had been studying - the one that had put her to sleep. Maybe it would work for Cara, too.

She flipped the book over to glance at its title. _The Seventh Codex of Sandragon_. Rolling her eyes, she wondered if Kahlan got through the first six earlier that day.

She sat and began reading.

Most of the words held no important meaning. Just self-important prattling by old men who had been dead for scores upon scores of years. It was ludicrous how much of the future still rested on their words. Cara hated it. There had to be another way for this different world to go on. A way without predestination and duty and unbearable chasms of impossible longing.

Through the rapid fog of hostile thoughts, a printed word caught her eye.

_Tempest._

Cara’s blood ran cold. She worked back and read again.

_A tempest comes when the winds of return bring the powerful blood to melding. A usurper will rattle against the weight of its swelling, invoking the names of the Chimes, threatening to drain the brittle world of its luster._

This was it. This was _it_. This had to be it. How had _she_ found it? Sleep was absolutely out of the question now. Cara wondered whether she should wake Kahlan or just let her rest until morning. But there was more, she realized - she had to keep reading.

_In these times, a bonded Seeker must take up the Sword of Truth in defense of magic, and unbridled, murderous rage will complete the necessary sacrifice._

It was like running directly into a stone wall.

Cara shook her head clear of the blow, rubbed her eyes, and tried again.

_a bonded Seeker must take up the Sword of Truth_

The world bottomed out in a silent, thunderclap collapse, and Cara was taken along with it.

_Seeker - Sword of Truth_

Nothing was simple. Nothing was easy.

And some things were entirely impossible.


	13. Conjure Hell Is All I Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple more Kahlan chapters headed your way; couple more quick ones, too. But we are officially moving along!

The sequential noises of a frustrated grunt, a resounding thud, and a half-hidden groan of pain made it clear that Cara had just taken another one of her recruits to the ground in the courtyard below.

Kahlan drew herself from her churning thoughts to peer over the balustrade. Sure enough, Cara was yanking one of the scrawnier members of her squad to his feet by the front of his practice chest plate. His eyes were wide as he found his legs under himself, blinking in shock at how quickly Cara had gotten him down. It was what Kahlan assumed was a common reaction to a common occurrence.

The day was overcast and threatening a midday rain shower - but the clouds were a mercy, blocking out the sun’s hostile heat. Kahlan had decided to spend the morning watching the recruits train; it was a welcome escape from all of the unpleasantness which had recently manifested in so many forms.

The fact that it was Cara’s squad training with her in the courtyard below the Mother Confessor’s balcony was an added bonus. It was fascinating to watch Cara work. Skillful, methodical. Frugal with words **,** but an excellent teacher and exemplar for it. So much more than Kahlan ever expected, and probably more than Cara saw in herself. All Kahlan wanted to do was stare.

“What did you do wrong?” Kahlan heard her ask the skinny little thing. She hadn’t yet let go of his armor, keeping him there, making him accountable for an answer.

“I dunno.” It was an honest reply, not an insolent one. The boy looked altogether lost and dazed by the fall. “You’re stronger than me, and you knocked me over.”

“I _am_ stronger than you, Otto. Much stronger.” Cara’s exaggerated shrug was visible from Kahlan’s spot on the balcony. “But that’s not why I took you down. You have an opening on your left that I’ve taken advantage of every single time I’ve worked with you. I gave you an opening to _my_ right, which you missed entirely while you were swinging at me like you were trying to swat a wasp. You have to know and command your own weaknesses, while anticipating your opponent’s.” She released him with a gentle (by her standards, it seemed) but definitive push and beckoned for her next victim to her as she concluded. “That means keeping your head level and not being worried about getting stung. That means fighting calm.”

Kahlan’s mouth broke into a bitter smile at Cara’s suggestion of _fighting calm_. Nothing about Cara - nothing about _Kahlan_ \- had been calm since the night two previous, when their bodies almost lost control in Kahlan’s bed. Let alone the following morning, when Kahlan woke alone the next morning only to find Cara sitting in her solar, stiff and upright, grim-faced. She had ignored Kahlan’s shy greeting, instead just pointing at a passage of _The Seventh Codex of Sandragon_ Kahlan had not managed to reach before they had made their quick, restless retreat to Kahlan’s bedroom.

_“A tempest comes when the winds of return bring the powerful blood to melding. A usurper will rattle against the weight of its swelling, invoking the names of the Chimes, threatening to drain the brittle world of its luster. In these times, a bonded Seeker must take up the Sword of Truth in defense of magic, and unbridled, murderous rage will complete the necessary sacrifice.”_

Kahlan’s stomach had immediately gone sick as she read the second branch of the passage aloud. Finally seeing a reference to both a tempest _and_ winds was enough on its own. But the Seeker, the Sword of Truth - both unequivocally lost - being named as critical pieces to the puzzle? Kahlan could hardly force the words past the lump in her throat as she read them aloud.

But after she had said them, moving through the grips of the saying, the nausea and heartache dwindled into strange numbness. She had felt too much in the short day before to digest any single other emotion. The shifting had been breakneck.

Determination in searching the codices, exhausted discouragement as the evening turned to night without any luck. Unruly, terrified lust, with Cara’s weight on her lap, Cara’s mouth on hers, and her own destructive hands all over Cara’s lean and willingly-offered body. Making her _throb_ , making her wetter than she had ever been in her life - and while the feeling of arousal was unnerving for her in general, the way she had been soaked and pulsing, with Cara so close, groaning and flexing under her touch, had transcended anything she felt before. The sheer desperation to have Cara inside of her, her deprived body demanding its imperative to be filled, to beget, to produce. The need to be inside of Cara, in return. All of it bringing her ridiculously close to climax without even being touched. The cold panic at that impending sensation, the strain of prying herself back from it. The despair of having to stop before she was taken by the arching and the clenching - that shattering release she had only felt so rarely before, when she could no longer stand the fruitless tension inside, and only by her own hand when not another soul was nearby. The only safe way, the only way she could.

But then there was the warm resilience of Cara’s body tight against her back. Cara’s fingertips, moving more sweetly than they let on, stroking her bare leg, calming the turmoil they had begun together. Cara’s bare hand, soothing her to deep and needed slumber. The other forbidden feeling - the one that bubbled up nearly every time she looked at Cara - swirling eagerly in her chest and throat with each tiny caress.

And that final thought before she drifted off, a recurring one, back with a vengeance and a sickening drop in her stomach: Cara deserved so much more than this.

But time passed, and duty prevailed, regardless of how she felt about anything - how _anyone_ felt about anything. Cara was back at work training the recruits, like she had to be. Always loyal to her duty, always focused, even through the apprehension Kahlan knew was rolling through her - a product of her Mord-Sith training, her default way of being, so ridiculously strong.

And Kahlan - sitting on the balcony, just _watching_ , when she should have been more attentively focused on her discussion with Alferon - had a lot to learn from her.

Luckily, the wizard did not seem to mind the momentary lapse in conversation. Kahlan finally pried her eyes from the courtyard (and from Cara) to see him smiling at her, softly, with muted sadness in his ageless eyes.

“So, which part does it benefit us most to consider at this very moment?”

The smile that crossed Kahlan’s face was much more bitter, but was a smile nonetheless. And she hated that a false face had become her purpose.

“All of it.” She shook her head, scoffing. “None of it. I truly don’t know.”

Alferon sighed, and Kahlan hoped the sigh was not laced with pity. It was the last thing she needed from anyone, especially not a trusted mentor. “I know nothing written in the passage is easy for you to see, Kahlan. It makes my heart ache. But we cannot even be sure it is connected to what Shota said to you.”

“We can’t be sure. But it’s just a little too perfect to deny, don’t you agree?” But it wasn’t perfect. The matched words were, but nothing else was. She suddenly felt sick again as she heard the distinctive ring of the Sword of Truth in her head, a cold and faraway phantom.

Alferon turned his gaze down, giving his beard a hesitantly thoughtful stroke. “Then at least most of the passage is clear. It could take scholars years to tease out a more ambiguous prophecy. We were fortunate with the clarity surrounding the most dangerous part.” When his eyes rose to meet Kahlan’s, they were suddenly fraught with darkness. “I’m speaking of the Chimes.”

Kahlan just blinked, having never heard of any such thing in her years of study. Alferon did not seem surprised by her unfamiliarity, as he went on without pause.

“It’s an insidious bit of knowledge, to be sure. I learned of their existence from Zeddicus as an acolyte; he was the one to approach when encountering a piece of information that made the other wizards squirm.”

Kahlan managed to smile through a pang of grief. That certainly sounded truthful. What she wouldn’t give to have Zedd there, now.

“The Chimes are dangerous magical entities from the Underworld,” Alferon explained. “If summoned into the world of the loving, they will begin to siphon out and extinguish all magic. If their presence is allowed to remain for too long, the damage would be irreversible, with magic never again to be restored to our world.”

“Wait.” Kahlan narrowed her eyes, head already aching. It seemed to be doing that a lot, these days. “That doesn’t make sense. Using magic to eradicate magic? It’s a paradox.”

A glimmer in Alferon’s eyes gave the hint that he knew she was going to ask. “You’re right, it is. But think of how many paradoxes each of us engages in every day. Think of those who loathe themselves so much they set out to destroy themselves through the cruel means of our world.” He nodded. “It’s the same with the Chimes. Their magic comes from the Underworld - so vastly hateful of self and others that it just seeks to destroy. And oftentimes, it takes magic to destroy magic.”

Kahlan was quiet for a long moment, considering what Alferon was saying. Considering magic - considering the magic running through her own veins, considering it being drained and erased. The thought carried with it a dread so deep that Kahlan nearly panicked as it came over her. She was a Confessor. She was the Mother Confessor. She had been defined by her power for her near-three decades of life - a destiny, a life force, a duty, and a burden to carry. But despite the burden, the thought of it fading to nothingness was like thinking about losing a limb, and it came with a nauseous shudder.

This must be how Cara felt when she realized her Agiels had gone silent. Kahlan’s chest seized.

But it wasn’t just her own self Kahlan felt it for. It was Alferon, too, and the other Second Wizards. There were already so few of them left. It was the Sisters of the Light who had spared and raised her and Dennee; it was Sister Verna, who proved to be a loyal friend to Richard in the Old World. It was Renn, the Listener, and Adie, the Bone Lady. It was Shota and her visions. And, even though she prickled at the thought of magic, sometimes, it was _Cara_ \- the Breath of Life, and her ability to capture and deflect magic, a form of magic in and of itself. So many souls Kahlan had encountered, so many lives that had made a difference in hers, bled of their essence and unique purpose.

The Midlands were rife and rich with magic. Kahlan thought of the night wisps - the tiny sparks that set the chain of life in perpetual motion. The Mud People of the Wilds and their deep connection with their ancestors, lived over and over again through sacred and transcendental rituals. The Andolians, strange, not quite human, but in tune with the signs and spirits and eager to be viewed as important. All of the breathtaking sights Kahlan had seen through her travels and ministry as a Confessor before she crossed the Boundary to Westland in search of the Seeker.

 _The brittle world_ , the codex’s passage had said. This world _was_ brittle. Kahlan couldn’t imagine a more awful way to break it completely than by obliterating what made it so mysterious and wonderful.

As the Mother Confessor, it was her charge to protect these small lands, these fascinating creatures. It had been that way for millennia, since Magda Searus herself. Kahlan was their voice, their hope.

“Who in the world would want to wipe out all magic?” Kahlan found herself asking out loud, though faint of voice, at the height of her thoughts.

A shadow passed over Alferon’s face. “Ask yourself that again, Kahlan. I think we both know.”

The answer fell over her like the summer downpour that was threatening overhead. A name she hadn’t thought of in nearly a year, since more immediate and wicked fates and more pressing journeys had come to the forefront. But it came thundering back, now, at Alferon’s grim hint, and she felt very foolish for not realizing it sooner.

“The Blood of the Fold.”

While the title said nothing discernible or definitive, the Blood of the Fold made itself known through its atrocious collective ideology and harrowing actions. A vocal, yet entirely secretive faction, the Blood held that all magic was a force of the Keeper himself - how he made his presence known in the world of the living. Its stalwart, hardheaded members considered it their highest duty to exterminate any of what they considered to be the Keeper’s influence. While the Blood was outlawed across the Midlands, and proof of membership was punishable by hanging or confession, its twisted credences still managed to proliferate and spread, leading to at least one or two incidents heinous enough to make it to Aydindril’s court each year. Crucifixions, hangings, burnings at the stake, all of innocent people and creatures whose only mistake was to be born with magic.

The wind blew. The clouds were looking darker. Kahlan shivered, but only partly from the sudden drop in temperature heralding the approaching storm. The rest of it came over her because the pieces were beginning to settle together and form the skeleton of a tangible threat.

“So Sandragon’s passage and Shota’s prophecy are pointing to the Blood of the Fold being a part of all this?” Kahlan half-asked, half-murmured in heartache. An uprising of the Blood was something she hadn’t even considered before this moment. Her head felt so hazy, fuzzy.

Alferon sighed deeply and tugged at his beard again, clearly a nervous habit. “I don’t know, Kahlan. While it stands to reason, words like this can fit for any number of eventualities. That’s the danger in prophecy, and in reading it with an untrained eye. One sees what they want to see, and latches onto the first probable explanation. I know we don’t have any other option, but it’s an issue lurking in the shadows regardless.” He frowned at her. “Besides, there are other parts to the excerpt which aren’t so clearly defined, and others still that don’t fit the…” He paused, giving his next words close consideration. “The state of the world, as it stands.”

Kahlan flinched, bristled.

“The part about the Seeker.”

Her voice was flat, but everything else was a frenzy.

Alferon’s eyes fell to his feet.

“It seems to be the dead end portion of it.”

Not the best choice of words. Kahlan rubbed at her face with both hands.

“I know.” She tried to keep her voice from wavering. “I know. And that’s what makes me doubt this whole thing anyway. There’s no way for a Seeker to be named without a Wizard of the First Order.” And the last one was dead. And the Seeker was dead. Richard was dead, and Kahlan was dragging her way through the mess of everything, of so much at once. She thought she was strong enough. She had no choice but to be strong enough.

“Before Zeddicus made off to Westland with the Sword of Truth, the Central Council took it upon itself to name Seekers,” Alferon reminded her. “Though they were usually men with enough coin to sway them, and always for their own ends rather than the aim of a true Seeker. But even that is an impossibility, now.”

“Because the Sword of Truth is lost. We don’t even have the sword. We don’t have it.”

Her voice lost its composure as her sentences devolved to barely-concealed despair. She pulled herself together with a ragged breath.

The silence that fell between them was answer enough. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. The cloudburst was on its way. So was something else, something that couldn’t be warded off. Kahlan felt even sicker. She swallowed hard against and blinked to clear her eyes.

Alferon leaned back in his seat. “And then there are the ambiguous parts. The winds of return, the melding blood, the necessary sacrifice. They could mean any number of things. Something yet unseen, or something already seen. You said the sorceress gave you signs to look for. Have any come to pass?”

Kahlan shook her head. “No. But it’s like you said, I’m looking with an untrained eye. And anything, or nothing, could match the ambiguous things she told me.”

“If you heed her words, we have a month until the equinox.” Alferon reached over to touch her shoulder, gently, almost reluctantly, and Kahlan wanted to lean into it, to relish in someone who believed and saw value in what she was saying, in what she was fighting. “Kahlan, we will see this through. I know you, and I know all that you’ve done. I know you will not let your people or the Midlands come to suffering. The others, the doubters, they will see. Keep your head up. Keep thinking. I plan on doing the same.”

Kahlan smiled weakly. Touched his hand. Wished she believed him as fully as she wanted to.

“There _is_ something else I noticed in the passage,” she murmured. Alferon nodded, gaze attentive. Kahlan took a breath, hoping her observation wouldn’t just raise more questions, but knowing already that it would. “It makes no mention of the Keeper, or the Underworld.”

Another clattering thud rang out from below, followed by a groan, much more ferocious and frustrated than the last one that had caught Kahlan’s attention. Distracted, she glanced down at the courtyard to see one of Cara’s older boys, a black-haired Ander, brushing off Cara’s offered hand as he clambered to his feet. Even from above, Kahlan could tell he was seething, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed, face red.

“This is _ridiculous_ and unhelpful!” He stomped one foot, suddenly looking much younger than his height implied.

“Victor,” another older boy warned him. But Cara held up a hand, eyes never leaving the recruit she had just sent to the ground.

“No, Bradley.” Voice calm, but like ice. “Let him speak.” Each word enunciated and exaggerated, traveling straight down Kahlan’s spine.

Victor paled, gulped, but was too far in to back down. He steeled himself again and kept up his rant, voice rasping. “You’re too strong!” He jabbed his finger at Cara. “And you’re fully armored and don’t have to worry about getting hurt. It’s unfair. We don’t stand a chance. It doesn’t help us to just crush us like this. It doesn’t help us at all. I think you just enjoy it.”

As soon as he was done, and couldn’t shove the words back inside, he winced.

Cara took two slow steps toward him, hands on her hips, flicking her braid back over her shoulder. She was facing the other way, so Kahlan couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t need to see it to know how it had to look as she addressed him.

“Is this how you speak to the other captains?” A simple question, but a dangerous question.

“No, Mistress Cara,” he replied, caught somewhere between chagrin and defiance.

Cara nodded, once.

“So just to _me_ , then.”

His mouth opened, closed, with no sound, eyes going wide, as Cara got even closer, face to face, of the same height. He took an unconscious step back, and she closed the gap again, relentless.

“That’s ten laps, _recruit_.” She said it quietly, but clearly, definitively, with a horrifying sharp calm that made Victor cringe. “I suggest you start running now. The rain’s coming. I’ll leave you out here if you’re not done before it does.”

He gave her a helpless look before he took off at a lumbering pace, chest plate banging against his body as he ran. A few of the other recruits snickered, half to poke fun at his situation, half in relief that it wasn’t them.

“And _seven_ laps apiece,” Cara declared, “to all who thought it would be a wise idea to laugh at your squad-mate. Your lack of discipline is pathetic. Honesty is your friend, here, because I saw each and every one of you who did. Don’t think I don’t have a worse punishment in mind if you don’t take responsibility. Your own mothers won’t recognize you when I am finished.”

The laughers exchanged sheepish, guilty glances before they, too, set off to run the perimeter of the courtyard.

Kahlan was transfixed. Cara was doing really, really well. And it made Kahlan feel warm, heavy, distracted, relieved. So many things.

But then Alferon cleared his throat.

“Kahlan, it’s almost time. Are you ready?”

Kahlan resisted the urge to groan out loud. Everything had her so fraught she almost had forgotten what the rest of today entailed - she wished it could be forgotten entirely. No, she wasn’t ready. Even after years and years of it, she was truly never ready for it. And now, she wasn’t ready to go from one horrible thing to the next horrible thing, over and over, punctuated and interrupted only by brief glances at Cara.

But she had to be more like Cara. Doing what she had to do, upholding her duty, head down, eyes focused. And to do it well. She had to try.

“Yes,” she sighed. “I’m ready. I have no other choice.” She paused. “Though I still don’t understand the senselessness behind why he did what he did.”

Alferon looked at her with wise eyes, eyes brimming with magic, with the Gift.

“Wizard’s Third Rule, Kahlan. Passion rules reason, for better or for worse.”

* * *

The Council Chambers were much too crowded for what was about to transpire.

Kahlan, white hood drawn over her head, frowned imperceptibly as she surveyed the throng of people murmuring to one another, watching, waiting. She hoped they were there for the satisfaction of seeing justice served, and not just hoping for some thrilling spectacle to drunkenly recount over a pint later. The horror of the act, the horror of the punishment. Taking pleasure in someone else’s downfall, pleasure in the fact that their own lives were still intact. Maybe even making jokes. She knew they did.

This wasn’t thrilling to her. It never was. She looked down at her right hand and thought about what it was about to do - what she was about to do. A part of her. A part of the burden. Waiting for the thousandth time still felt the same as waiting for the first.

The anticipatory buzzing in the room was sliced to silence as two Home Guard members escorted the prisoner in. His chains clinked on the marble as he walked. Kahlan breathed from her belly, centering herself, controlling her face by putting on her Confessor’s mask. Every eye in the crowd would soon be intent on her, but none would know what was happening beneath the fierce sternness, the strong voice, the stony eyes.

The man in shackles was tall, blond, and handsome despite the pockmarks on his face. But his deeds, the reason why he was here, filled Kahlan with deep anger and revulsion. His eyes were teeming with hate, with anger, with terror he didn’t want to show. But they betrayed not one single trace of regret. Kahlan could see all of it in his gaze - it was impossible for him to hide from a Confessor. It was impossible for him to hide the fact that he was undoubtedly guilty of the accused crime.

And as the Mother Confessor, she was going to bring justice.

She could only have been back in Aydindril for so long before a public confession was necessary.

The escort came to a halt before her, and she addressed the congregation from the semicircular dais. As she spoke, the man’s bitter gaze seared into her. She did not react to it.

“Citizens of Aydindril.” Her voice was strong, her voice was clear. She couldn’t feel it as she spoke. Every eye was on her. “The man in shackles before you is Lewis Sibert of Galea, a decorated captain of the Galean Royal Army. A man who fought bravely and nobly for the Midlands against the forces of D’Hara and Darken Rahl; a man who upheld the tenets of his service and protected all of you from subjugation and destruction.” She took a pause. The sea of faces before her hung onto the words as they reverberated away. “He has since tainted his valor in the act of brutally murdering one of his own brothers-in-arms over the affections of a courtesan.”

A hum of gasps and murmurs came from the crowd like the hiss of ocean spray. Sibert glared and sneered, at the sound, at Kahlan, at everything and everyone. But he only had himself to blame for his horrific actions, Kahlan thought.

“I will spare the details of the act, but rest assured that it is _very_ appropriate that he has been brought before the highest court of Aydindril instead of remaining in Galea for punishment.” She resisted the urge to shudder at her knowledge, and at how depraved mankind could be. “A trial by his peers and my own scrutiny have found his guilt to be incontestable. In private talks, he has been sentenced to both confession and hard labor in the quarries of Mount Kymermosst until the moment his body is too feeble to continue. Then, death.”

The word rolled from Kahlan’s tongue more easily than it came from her chest. The cavernous room was silent.

“Let this be a reminder to all of you,” she addressed the crowd, lifting her arms, palms upturned, “that none is guarded from engaging in wickedness and cruel perversion, despite all past integrity and virtue. Know yourself, and know what is right and good.”

Cold eyes turned to Lewis Sibert, then. “Do you have any final words as your free self, before my power takes you?” Her voice was not venomous, not disgusted, not like she felt. Just impartial. Measured. Dutiful.

Sibert’s sneer deepened, turned into something more malicious. He opened his mouth and pierced the thrumming quiet with a carefully-pronounced, spiteful last proclamation.

“ _Confessor bitch_.”

Kahlan did not react - the death knell of a disgusting man held no power over her. But she was reminded that Confessors were hated as much as they were revered. Maybe more.

She nearly thought of the Blood of the Fold before she shoved it away, turning up her chin, mouth tightening.

“Your fate is sealed, then. The Creator will not have mercy on your soul - your soul is mine.”

His chains rattled behind his back where his hands were bound as she approached him. It didn’t matter. He was guilty, he was bound, and his ability to choose any single thing for himself was about to be obliterated by the touch of her hand.

Kahlan felt the vibrations of the congregation - anxious, chilled, amazed, excited, reverent, so many things all at once - as her right hand pressed against the column of Sibert’s throat.

Staring into his eyes, into every part of him, she let her constant restraint go slack, as she had done countless times before.

Everything that followed was also familiar: the ricocheting of the soundless, jolting thunder that she sent into him. The way he shook violently and then stilled as it struck him, eyes widening, helpless, pupils expanding and swirling, taking over the whites. Kahlan felt the new connection form. A tether from her mind, her mouth, to his very being, clawing out, sinking in, and then drawing back to her. It rooted into her, and she steeled herself against the repugnant feeling of being linked to a soul capable of such darkness. But this was her burden. Head down, eyes focused.

And then it was done.

Kahlan released him, and he fell to his knees, fettered by chains and by spirit alike. Kahlan remained standing, chest heaving with a single deep breath. She remembered the first time she released her powers, just as a little girl, terrified, coerced, falling weakly into nearly a full day of sleep after it came out of her body. Even a just year ago, confessing a person would leave her dizzy, weak-kneed, even collapsing. Now, though, she already felt her capacity being restored. She was strong, she was powerful. The thing she did was fearful.

And the way Lewis Sibert was gawking up at her from his knees, with every possible shred of truly-believed but absolutely-false love in his eyes, made her feel ill.

“Command me, Confessor.”

* * *

It rained for hours, just as the gathering angry clouds had warned. But the skies cleared by mid-evening, and Cara’s squad was finally able to take to the courtyard for archery practice. The targets were still set up, having been abandoned by the other group using them as the deluge started its relentless torrent. Alone this time, Kahlan watched discreetly from her balcony, seeking any sort of refuge from what she had already endured that day.

For the moment, this happened to be the most soothing method she knew.

Cara hadn’t noticed her, and Kahlan preferred it that way. Without knowing Kahlan was watching, she acted so very herself. Back straight, bow slung over one shoulder, quiver over the other, sauntering up and down the line of recruits, scrutinizing their positioning before they got to actually shooting. She adjusted them here and there, repositioning their fingers on the string, lifting elbows, steadying their aim and adjusting their anchor points, flicking them in the shoulder and back to remind them to pull from the stronger, larger group of muscles there instead of from their weak biceps.

“Don’t even pay mind to the arrow,” she told them, making them hold position until they were shaking. “Mind the string. If you pull correctly, the arrow will do the work itself. Develop strength in this position. Release.” The recruits groaned with relief as they let their fatigued arms drop. “And again.” More groans as they redrew. “ _Stop_ complaining.” Quick silence and quaking muscles.

When their technique work was done, and she deemed the boys ready to actually let some arrows fly, Cara turned her attention to the targets, frowning as she saw the state of them. Spent arrows were still stuck in all over, with more littering the ground around them.

“It seems we’re following a group of slobs.” She pursed her lips. “I wonder what men couldn’t be bothered to clean up after themselves, frightened by a little bit of rain. I’m glad we’re stronger and more disciplined than that. Aren’t you?”

Her squad members made determined sounds of agreement. Kahlan felt herself smile for the first time in hours, maybe all day.

Cara piqued her eyebrows at her recruits before grasping her bow, turning toward a target, and nocking an arrow from her own quiver. Kahlan stared as she drew her bow, watching the muscles of her shoulder and back rippling under her skintight leathers. Kahlan never thought she could be so enthralled by another woman’s body, but she was entirely captivated, biting her lip. And it was one thing to just be seeing the leanness - her hands remembered it. Her hands remembered running all over Cara’s back, palms gliding along taut sinew, separated from skin only by her thin nightshirt. She remembered again Cara’s weight on her, straddling her lap, hips pressed together, as she stole Kahlan’s breath again and again with her mouth. Kahlan’s breath hitched again on the balcony, core tightening with want at the remembering. It was all she could remember, sometimes. All she could remember lately. She shivered.

Below, Cara released her arrow, carefully-aimed, all deadly focus.

It sailed through the air, making its decisive purchase in the target directly through one of the abandoned arrows, splitting its shaft right down the middle.

The recruits gaped. So did Kahlan.

Cara turned toward them, but then squinted quizzically, at their shocked expressions.

“Close your mouths. You’re embarrassing yourselves.”

“Shaft shot,” one of the smallest boys whispered with unabashed incredulity, shifting how he was holding the bow that looked much too large for him. Cara turned sharply to regard him.

“What was that, recruit? Speaking out of line is not tolerated. I hope you were saying something valuable.”

He cleared his throat, blinked, and straightened. “Uh, I said, _shaft shot_ , Mistress Cara.” She furrowed her brow, and he was quick to elaborate. “A shaft shot. You put your arrow into the target through the shaft of another arrow. I’m Aydindril born-and-bred. They give ribbons to the Home Guard archers for a shaft shot. You just made one.”

Cara smirked, shaking her head. “A ribbon for _this_?”

She stepped back in line with another target, nocked an arrow, aimed, and released it. Kahlan didn’t even have to be looking to know that she had just made another. She looked anyway. It was hypnotizing. Her heart was racing.

“Um. Yes. Two ribbons, now, I guess,” the boy corrected her, numbly, shrugging.

And instead of stunned silence, this time, the others erupted in excited cheers for what they had just witnessed their captain accomplish. Cara rolled her eyes, but Kahlan saw one of those rare, true smiles tugging just at the corner of her mouth as she walked toward the targets to clean them up a bit.

“Alright, enough. Quiet. Form lines in front of each target and wait for my count. If any one of you makes a shaft shot, he'll get to enjoy his ribbon _and_ the promise of no laps for a week.”

“Yes, Mistress Cara!” they exclaimed in enthusiastic unison, each grinning, each wanting to be the first to follow in her footsteps.

Kahlan stood, giving Cara one more lingering but undetected look. It was time to let her be truly alone for the rest of the session, to work, to become something without Kahlan’s even surreptitious presence. Kahlan looked at her with warmth, and felt warmth. Felt her hands shake. Wanted Cara so badly, every part of her, terrifying herself with the yearning for it, terrified at how much she wanted the yearning to be enough.

And then she went inside.

It wouldn’t be long until Cara was finished, anyway, and would join Kahlan in her quarters to eat ravenously and then sleep like the dead, mouth helplessly open, breathing slowly.

And her resilient, soothing presence would once again cut into all the awfulness spiraling in Kahlan’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay groovy!


	14. Kingdom Come Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick chapter - I'm going away this weekend and desperately wanted to update, so here's one for ya! Also another opportunity for the next chapter to have more content...and ~you want the next chapter to have more content~. (AKA pls stick with me even though I'm murdering my pacing I just wanna share everything I can with you folks as quickly as I can ahhhhh)
> 
> Also - sorry if the _folklore_ chapter title ruins any fellow sapphic's life, but there are more to come

A night of sleep did not temper any of the yearning.

Not that Kahlan thought it would.

The heavy warm pull in her stomach and below was near-constant. In Cara’s presence, it was fierce and trembling, demanding - but even when Cara was elsewhere, the memory of her body and mouth (and the want for more of both) was enough to send Kahlan spiraling into distracted aching. It was unbecoming of the Mother Confessor to be walking around _throbbing_ , body and heart alike filled with concealed but burning hunger, but it was far beyond what was practiced at pushing away or denying herself.

All of the wanting must have caused Kahlan to sleep more lightly than usual, because she woke before it was necessary the following morning. Cara’s early rising did not usually affect her, but today, her hand slipping off of Kahlan’s hip and the loss of shared body heat roused Kahlan from her slumber. Weary from the long day, she had asked Cara to hold her more closely than usual again as they went to bed; it was a request Cara was quietly willing to follow, curling her body against Kahlan’s back, arm draped over her waist. The intimate nearness helped to soothe her, and it was worth having to fight against the terrifying urge to take Cara’s hand, move it to her breast or even between her legs, and beg for relief.

Kahlan wasn’t irked at Cara for having woken her. She just kept silent and lay still, eyes closed, hoping to drift back off for just a bit longer, until she had to begin readying herself for the afternoon’s council meeting. But despite the intention and few moments of effort, she had already tipped from sleep to wakefulness. She shifted, turning over onto her other side, and was about to wish Cara a good day of training.

Her greeting was halted somewhere between her mind and her mouth.

Cara hadn’t noticed Kahlan’s slow waking movements. She had her back to the bed, and was already naked as she prepared to dress. Kahlan’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at her in mesmerized silence, struck helpless and dumb in the grip of bare skin and rippling muscle. Cara’s shoulders and back had managed to grow even broader and more defined since their arrival in Aydindril. Kahlan’s hands ached, remembering all of the touching and wanting to touch again, this time skin to skin - and then again, and again, until they were fully satisfied, if they ever would be.

There should have been some guilt in watching like this, in _gaping_ like this. There _was_ guilt, but Kahlan was numb to it, entirely wrapped up in Cara’s nude form. Cara turned just slightly, not enough for her to notice Kahlan’s hungry gaze, but enough for Kahlan to see just a hint of the front of her body, cast off at an angle. The groove of muscle from her hip to her groin, the lines of sinew cutting across her stomach, the contour of one breast. Kahlan drew in a silent gasp when she saw that that her nipple was hard. Spirits, she was stunning. And Kahlan was burning from the inside out.

Cara’s nudity wasn’t some wild novelty - Kahlan had seen her just like this plenty of times on the road, in their seclusion together. But while Cara never tried very hard to preserve her own modesty, Kahlan would always do her best to properly avert her eyes, only seeing her skin in quick blushing glimpses. There had been the time when Cara was hurt in a baneling fight, but Kahlan was much more concerned with her injuries and her headshock than with her state of dress.

Now, though. Now, she couldn’t keep her eyes away. Now, especially right this moment, she could stare as long as she wanted. She could stare long enough to take in all of the nuances of Cara’s body she couldn’t before: the firm curve of her backside, the way her waist cut in sharply above her hips, the pale birthmark on her ribcage. The scar running from her shoulder blade, along her side, to the jut of her hip bone. Kahlan realized she probably didn’t want to know where it came from, but _did_ want to trace it from end to end with her fingertips, with her mouth.

The thought of it made her skin tingle everywhere, made her curl inward.

Kahlan had been attracted to Richard, sometimes recklessly so, in every way. But eventually, Richard became quite mindful of keeping himself in check. Mindful of not burdening Kahlan with his body or the way he carried himself - always chaste touches, chaste kisses, conveying tenderness and care without raw lust. Cara, on the other hand, _was_ raw lust, even when she wasn’t intending to be. Every movement, every gaze exuded unabashed connection with her own body - which exuded passion and sensuality to Kahlan. There was nothing to soften it, because it was simply a part of her. Every bit of it was tortuous and entrancing, all the more so when Cara chose to share it in explicit ways. Stomach dropping, fingers prickling, Kahlan remembered the feeling of Cara straddling her hips and arching into her.

And half the time anymore, Kahlan didn’t know what she was thinking, or what she was doing. She has no idea of what she would even do with Cara’s body, or with her own, if she called Cara back to her right then, the way she wanted. To grant her dispensation from training that day in favor of spending all of it in bed instead, learning, figuring it out. Figuring each other out, more than they had, more than they realized they needed to.

Kahlan was out of control, grasping futilely at the poise she had been continuously cultivating since her mother had taught her how to comprehend her power. She couldn’t pull herself back from the staring, couldn’t rein in the delicious but dangerous twinge in her belly. The desire to have Cara come back into the bed and come crashing into her, to feel her skin, to kiss her with more wild abandon than she had yet, to do so much more. Kahlan’s heart was racing, her skin was hot, breath coming in shallow bursts. She was so wet. She could feel it slick on the inside of her thighs, and it was embarrassing and frightening and ridiculous but so, so good. And vehement, and impossible to ignore. She needed to be touched, needed release. But she couldn’t have it in the way she wanted it for so many nauseating reasons.

And the least of them was the fact that Cara had laced herself into her leathers, with more grace than Kahlan could have ever conceived, and was now sauntering out of the room without a backward glance, drawing her hair up in preparation to braid it. She shut the door softly behind her as she left, utterly ignorant of the state in which she had left Kahlan in the bed.

Kahlan rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow to her face and using it to muffle a feeble groan.

It was no use, she quickly discovered, trying to relax her breathing and bring herself back into any calm, centered state. A frenzied squabble of desire and disappointment drove her heartbeat. Her body was so worked up at the mere sight of Cara’s figure that it was practically vibrating with demand for relief.

And Kahlan had only one flustering, imperfect option to ease the tension.

She let out a sharp sigh of resignation as she shoved her right hand between her body and the featherbed. Every one of her muscles twitched as her fingertips brushed over her clit - the quick contact was already enough to make her arch and shudder. It had been some time since she had touched herself like this, and though she needed it, the action came with the hollow feeling of wanting so much more. Repeating the uncertain motion, she couldn’t control the tiny, helpless moan that escaped from her throat.

It only took the briefest moment for her to realize that she wasn’t even sure what to think about there, with her hand between her legs. Of how it would look, how it would work, to be granted the unknown thing she craved. All of this pining for something so unfamiliar and foreign was unfathomable, but the not-knowing did not come close to stopping her from pining for it. She settled on the first thought that made her body jerk along with her touch: being strewn across the bed together, with Cara on top of her, lying between her thighs, thrusting her hips against Kahlan’s in a torturously slow, wonderfully tenacious manner that let Kahlan feel every flex of Cara’s muscles, every merciless wave of pleasure that radiated from their deliberate writhing movements. Cara, claiming Kahlan’s mouth with her own, with lips and tongue and teeth, edging her hand into the space where their bodies were pressed together and easing her fingers inside. Kahlan’s skin erupted with flush at the phantom feeling of penetration. She gasped as she felt her hold on her power begin to falter. Part of her fought against the perilous threat of overflowing, but even more of her just needed _more_.

She thought about matching Cara’s action, reaching to slip her own fingers inside of Cara, joining their bodies into a continuous whole, no end and no beginning. To be giving Cara pleasure instead of the pain she had felt for the heartbreaking aggregate of her life.

Kahlan was already so aroused and, in her inexperience, never lasted long anyway. There was no time for comprehension, no warning, before she was overtaken completely, climaxing, _hard_ , with desperate need and a strangled moan into her pillow, her free hand fisting in the bedcovers, tense and tight as the rest of her body. At the edge of her strained awareness she felt her power, ruinous, even deadly, bursting from her body and crackling the air with its aimless gravity. Through the spasms, through the throes of clenching, she thought of Cara - thought of her body, her strange honor, thought of that continuous whole they had formed in her mind. Just of Cara, filling her heart with something both heavy and light in parallel.

Kahlan breathed deep as the shivering aftershocks subsided and her erratic heartbeat calmed, limbs going slack.

The haze in her mind began its languorous dissipation.

In her head’s new clarity, Cara remained.

The guilt rushed in, first. But it was quickly overpowered by a flood of realization, brought on by Kahlan’s efforts, by her exhaustion, through weakness after the pleasure. Her body felt thrice its weight as she turned over onto her back, staring at the vaulted ceiling. But all she saw, all she felt, was Cara. Her strength, her constancy. Her smile. How worthy she was, and how she deserved so much. Even though she was already gone, Kahlan still felt her there, felt the synergy between them, and the way their bodies managed to speak through everything left in the silence. There was a balance there - both were bound to others, bound to duty, both so flawed. But their flaws, all of their individual shortcomings, were a jigsaw reflection. Together, they fit. Kahlan wanted to fit. To be held.

Kahlan had felt for so long - since Richard’s death, since Richard’s _life_ , since she was a child - steeped in fear of what was breaking through this ridiculous lonesome quiet. Holding raw parts of herself close to her chest. Eager, thirsting, crying out with the fierce need to be known. In the lucidity, she couldn’t deny it. It was like coming unraveled, coming undone with all she was new at feeling, afraid to feel, collapsing with no core, no center of mass or strength.

Kahlan felt love. Swelling, flowing. _Needing_.

All she wanted was just one thing, a thing finally attached to its word. Gripping, white-hot.

And impossible.

Love was still something to be feared. A promise of destruction.

And not a single bit of it was fair. But fairness did not matter in the face of the duty with which she had been sidled.

Gritting her teeth, Kahlan tried not to let the hopeless, hostile tears prickling at her eyes spill over. She failed. But she didn’t make a sound as they flowed, keeping them for herself - a burden for her shoulders only, like so much more.

She lay there, silent tears streaming, thinking of Cara, thinking of all the fruitless things she wanted to tell her, until she had to collect herself and ask to have a bath drawn before the day’s obligations.

After all, they were never-ending.

* * *

The cracking pound of the gavel seemed to echo off of every surface in the Central Council chambers all at once, sending the sharp noise back at her a hundredfold. Kahlan tried not to wince as it aggravated her aching head.

She also tried to keep both tedium and distress out of her voice as she spoke through the opening formalities.

“Seven voting members present, five needed for quorum; we do have quorum and business will be conducted. The secretary will now read the minutes from the previous meeting.”

Dennee raised her hand. “Motion to skip the reading of the minutes.”

“Do I have a second to the motion?”

Mara Parre nodded. “Aye.”

“And a third,” Councilor Nielan added.

“Motion granted.” Kahlan struck the gavel again, more gently this time, flashing her sister a quick grateful look. It must have been clear that Kahlan was in no mood to sit through an excruciating recapitulation of the last session.

“Are you alright?” Dennee had asked her, concerned, almost immediately (in semi-private) upon arriving. “You don’t look like yourself.”

Kahlan must not have composed herself enough from the morning. She surely didn’t feel like herself. But spoken? “Just tired. Don’t worry.” She turned away before Dennee could comment again.

She made a greater effort to control her face after that. To smile, and hope it didn’t look as weak as it felt.

“We’ll now have reports from the aggregate nations. Councilor Bowe?”

“No report, Mother Confessor.”

“Councilor Parre?”

“No report from Kelton!” she replied in a cheerful tone, shaking her head.

There was no report from the Mardovian councilor, either. Kahlan moved on to the representative from Nicobarese and Jara. “Councilor Bellis?”

“One note from Nicobarese, Mother Confessor.” Councilor Bellis stood to address Kahlan. “Lord General Brogan offers his thanks for your approval of his troops’ quarter, and once again pledges his loyalty to the cause of the Midlands. He asks permission for an additional half-fist to join the rest.”

“You can tell Lord General Brogan that his courtesy is appreciated.” Kahlan gave a diplomatic nod. The appeasement was somewhat irritating, but the man seemed to have good intentions. “And please let him know that he is welcome at any council meeting to convey his own words. It’s his right as a high-ranking Midlands officer. Otherwise, have the request written up in a document for my formal approval.”

Alferon was gesturing his desire to speak, and Kahlan acknowledged him. “Motion to change the order of report?”

Kahlan knew what he was doing - they had discussed a plan prior. She raised an eyebrow. “Your proposal?”

“Have the Mother Confessor report next, instead of last.”

“Is there a second to the motion?” She punctuated the question with a pointed look at Dennee, who quickly caught on.

“I second the motion.”

“Motion granted - I will speak next, unless anyone objects.” None did. Kahlan stood from the First Chair and readied herself, clasping her hands in front of her waist. The potent mixture of resentment and longing was still coursing through her, relentless since earlier. The mindless pantomime through the routine meeting process had helped keep it at bay, but as she prepared to speak, it flared again, cruel and fiery. She shoved it away before she addressed her constituents, both simple and blunt in her words. “We have reason to discuss the Blood of the Fold.”

An unsettled quiet washed over those gathered. Kahlan watched the council members squint, shift in their seats, look askance at one another, and betray any other form of uneasy fidget at the thought of the clandestine but vicious anti-magic faction. Mara Parre was the first to break the quiet.

“Mother Confessor, the Blood has been silent in both word and action for the better part of a year.”

“Which more deeply necessitates this reminder to remain vigilant,” Kahlan pointed out. “There is reason to believe they won’t be silent for much longer.”

Gyles Thurstan of Galea piped up from his seat. “Humor my curiosity, Mother Confessor. What reason?”

Kahlan closed her eyes for the briefest second, steeling herself for debate. She knew this was inevitable. It would be so much easier to avoid it entirely, but the need to be honest and forthcoming was greater. Transparency was paramount, here. She owed it to them.

“There is a passage in the _Seventh Codex of Sandragon_ that seems to converge with the warning Shota of Agaden Reach gave me. It’s my hope that-”

Thurstan cut directly into her half-uttered sentence. “I thought we were in agreement to leave matters like this to the wizards, and not trouble-”

Kahlan’s anger surged, gratified this time to have an actual tangible target. She countered his disruption with one of her own. “How _dare_ you presume to interrupt me, Councilor Thurstan.”

More edgy silence as the sharpness of her voice reverberated. Kahlan knew Dennee was looking at her, worried, again. She didn’t return the glimpse. Thurstan blinked. “My apologies. I meant no offense. Go on.”

“No, please. _You_ go on, if what you’re saying carries such weight that it needs to be said over the Mother Confessor’s voice.”

“No need. You heard the point of it.” It was the closest to a mumble as Kahlan had ever heard coming from his mouth. It sickened her. Only in part from his insolence, but from the collective disregard the Central Council seemed to have for anything beyond the end of their noses or beyond their own egotistical aims. Kahlan had to wonder what part of it came from selfishness, and what part came from willful denial of another dangerous situation after another had just been seemingly settled. It didn’t matter. It was infuriating regardless of its rooted cause.

Kahlan addressed the entire group, specifically avoiding looking at Thurstan. “Rest assured, council members, that I am not tasking you with one single action beyond the normal scope of your duties. I am asking you to convey a message to your homeland constituents: _any_ activity of the Blood of the Fold, even rumored, is to be immediately reported to Aydindril as a Central Council matter.” She finally allowed her gaze to rest pointedly on Thurstan and his beady eyes and thick, almost nonexistent neck. Stone-faced, tight-jawed, she let some of her frustration effervesce through her voice. “Is that a problem?”

The group sat in chagrined silence for a moment before all present shook their heads.

“Good,” Kahlan said with stern finality, returning to her seat. Dedication to half-action was better than taking no action at all. “I expect that correspondence to go out hastily at the conclusion of this meeting. We’ll now move on to our final reports. Council Thurstan, it will be lovely to hear from you next.”

Thurstan, flickering rapidly between looking haughty as usual and looking like he would rather be somewhere else entirely, managed to scrape together his words. “The first several days of recruit training have culminated in success. I look forward to seeing these young men rise in defense of the Midlands and conquest in the name of the Midlands.”

Ignoring the last part of his statement, Kahlan nodded. “I agree. A fine idea you had. If it hadn’t been productive thus far, I would not have been so kind in the face of your earlier transgression.” She raised her eyebrows. “Final report.” It came out with a chill. He had been quiet so far. Trouble usually came from him being quiet. “Councilor Nielan, you have the floor.”

“No report from Anderith,” he said with a shrug.

Kahlan blinked once, somewhat surprised. He always managed to scrounge up something to say, regardless of its actual necessity or importance. “I see. If there are no further reports, we will move on to-”

“Ah, pardon the interruption, Mother Confessor, but I wasn’t finished.”

Kahlan suppressed a sigh. Apparently nobody was that lucky today. “You said no report.”

“Not from Anderith. But I have a matter of Central Council business to raise.”

“So speak.”

And then Nielan was smiling, smiling _warmly_ , genuinely, and it was the strangest thing to see such a kind and happy expression cross his face. “Now is an exciting time, Mother Confessor.” He stood to begin his speech. “A momentous occasion has finally come to pass, and more quickly than I had even hoped. At our first meeting several weeks ago, we came to a conclusion about the continuity of the Confessor line: the Mother Confessor promised that she would take the first suitable man to appear as a mate.” He looked to Kahlan, eyes bright, still grinning - though the grin was far from malicious, it still slithered over Kahlan’s skin and sucked the air right from her lungs. “You confessed a man just yesterday - a Lewis Sibert of Galea. He meets the qualifications to sire the next Confessor. It gladdens me that this particular issue will soon be put to rest.”

As Nielan’s words vibrated through the air, Kahlan’s hands began to shake. She balled them into fists in an attempt to still them, hoping they hadn’t betrayed the panic that had started a violent course through her. She fought to control her eyes, her mouth - fought to keep the cold and shocked dismay inside. Spirits, how had this not even crossed her mind? She had been too distracted for the thought of it to even register. By the coming equinox, by the tempest, by the codex. By Cara. At that thought, her stomach turned itself into cruel knots.

The short day had already given her too much to shoulder. But _too much_ meant nothing in the face of her duty to the Midlands. Nielan was right - she had promised. She had promised and she was resigned to it. This had been approaching her for so long, an unavoidable fate, a dark obligation catching up to her no matter how fast she was fleeing from it. She felt like she might be sick. But she had to say something. She had to say yes. Years and years of dread, the last year multiplying it tenfold. The last few moons amplifying it even more. She had to say yes, to accept, to go headfirst into what was required of her. She wasn’t ready. To take her mate, to have a child, any of it. She had to be ready. Because it was here and staring her in the face, terrifying and predatory. It was an unimaginable hurt, a stranglehold. But there was nowhere else to turn. Her back was against the wall; she was rattling futilely at the chains of her duty.

Kahlan had let too many tears fall that day. She blinked a few more back, took a deep breath, and thought of every Confessor before her who had resigned herself to this. She was resigned, too.

Kahlan was not special. She belonged to the Midlands, like every Confessor before her. Like her mother, like Serena, like Magda Searus. Her heart ached, screaming out, begging for some reprieve, but her heart didn’t matter. Not here.

She was about to croak out her defeated consent when Mara Parre threw her hand in the air with such urgency she nearly launched herself from her seat. “Permission to speak, Mother Confessor!”

“Permission granted.” Her own voice sounded far away, detached and choked, obscured and distorted by the pounding of her heart.

Parre stood to face Nielan, pure determination plastered on her face. She pulled a few pages of parchment from her robes and held them up. “I thought this topic might arise, so I took it upon myself to more fully research Sibert’s fitness as a Confessor’s mate over the few weeks since his sentencing. In the midst of it, I came across the fact that Sibert lost both his mother _and_ a sister to a wasting sickness - one of the same sort that took Confessor Sonya.” She shook the documents for emphasis. “I discussed this with some of the wisest healers I know, and they hold that it would be ill-advised for the Mother Confessor to take him as a mate. The threat of disease lends too much potential weakness to the combined bloodline. It would be irresponsible and reprehensible for us to hold her to her promise in this situation.”

And just for an instant, Kahlan could imagine herself kissing a woman other than Cara. In spite of the quick pang of sorrow that always came with hearing her mother’s name or the grief of losing her so young, an incredible lightness filled Kahlan’s limbs and chest, making her feel like she was floating. The other councilors were nodding in staunch agreement, murmuring to one another about the need for integrity in the Amnell bloodline. It seemed that she had been spared. She would have to send Councilor Parre a private gift of thanks, later.

Councilor Nielan, however, had gone deadpan. “You’re all honestly willing to pass over this opportunity based on something so unpredictable and indefinite?”

Parre thrust her report towards him. “Would you like to read for yourself? Here are the notes from the Sibert family records, as well a compilation of the written warnings from each of the five healers I spoke to. You can go right ahead and debate it with them, if you’d like. I’d love to see it.”

Nielan scoffed, eyes glinting, as he took in the gestures of assent all around him. He took roughly to his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “I suppose this shouldn’t surprise me. The Mother Confessor has already avoided this for long enough, what’s a little longer?” He let out a dramatic, affected sigh. “So much time spent meeting with _advisors_ , chasing after the fuddled words of some witch woman. In reality, it’s all based on dereliction.”

“Councilor Nielan.” Kahlan’s voice lost all of its tremble as she glared at him. “I’m warning you. A suggestion like the one I _thought_ I just heard come from your mouth is a dangerous choice to make.”

“I’m simply pointing out a fact.”

“Since I arrived here as a young woman, since I traveled with the Seeker, since I have returned here now - everything I do, I do for the benefit and betterment of the Midlands. Do you question my commitment to our land, councilor?” It was getting harder and harder to keep her fury in check. It burned in her throat, and she tried not to let it edge into her words. Fight calm, Cara had said. She had to stay calm. Otherwise, Nielan was inciting exactly the reaction he wanted. To catch her defensive, to catch her avoidant.

“No, Mother Confessor, I don’t question that.” Nielan shook his head. “But there _are_ certain other things I do question. Like your pipe dream surrounding taking a mate. You’ve clearly allowed yourself to grow attached to an idea which is out of touch with reality, completely impossible. It is clouding your resolve to embrace your duty.”

With that, Kahlan didn’t bother to hold in her churning anger as Nielan prodded at her grief, at her deepest wounds. Her upper lip curled as she spoke, standing without realizing she was going to. “Yes, Councilor Nielan. It’s common knowledge among you all that I shared a deep connection with the Seeker. That I knowingly entered into a semblance of a romantic relationship with him - that I loved him, fully and deeply, as any woman loves a man. Though it’s disallowed, I don’t apologize for it. I am certainly not the first Confessor to find herself in that situation.” She was about to say _and I won’t be the last_ , but then she remembered: the Sword of Truth was lost.

Kahlan had to push both the thoughts and the sickening dread away in order to keep speaking.

Her face hardened as she lashed out with her next words. “But Richard Cypher is _dead_ , Councilor Nielan.” Every time she said it, it was like a punch to her stomach, a lightning strike of fear of the world being lost. “I know it, you know it. All gathered here today know it. After everything I have seen, your proposed idea that I am clinging to the idea of having life with him is ridiculous. I recognize the impossibility.” So much was impossible. “To claim that I do not recognize it is, frankly, an insult to my rationality and intelligence. And I will _not_ stand for that.”

Dead quiet settled in the cavernous room as Kahlan’s resolute words echoed and slowly faded into oblivion. Kahlan’s heart was pounding, teeth clenched, throat tight with anger. She waited for a response. She would wait all day, keeping them in this cringing purgatory for hours and hours, if she had to.

Councilor Parre chanced the first attempt to speak, with quiet disbelief. “Nielan, your words were cruel and uncalled for. To speak so brashly of the Seeker to the Mother Confessor shows your lack of tact. Have some respect and let the dead rest.”

And then Nielan was grinning again. But this time, his grin _was_ malicious. While his sneer was directed at Parre, Kahlan was well aware that it was meant for her, as his gaze soon snapped to her. A bitterly amused laugh preceded his words.

“To think I’m speaking of the _Seeker_ ,” he snorted, incredulous. Nielan’s eyes locking with hers, the wicked smile twisting his mouth, made Kahlan feel disgusting. “I’m not. A warning to the wise, Mother Confessor. Nothing here is as discreet as you might think it is - as you might hope it is. More is seen and known than you realize. It’s known who your time is spent with.”

Confusion gave rise to disbelief, progressing to embarrassed panic, turning quickly to towering rage. Like she could have leaped for him and executed him on the spot. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t the way of things, and it wasn’t like her. This anger wasn’t like her, so frustrated and barbed and yearning.

And she also couldn’t because he wasn’t _wrong_.

She thought of Cara. Of sleeping in her arms, of their wandering hands and heavy, lingering gazes. Thought of the constant string of nights spent together - of Cara’s own chambers being left cold and empty. Of how much Cara had grown to be for her, of how Cara was growing on her own. How she wanted Cara, all the time. Thought of the word, connected to her too-long-denied heart’s crying out, that had broken the surface that morning after Kahlan let herself come, thinking about sharing their bodies. It was like tearing the hopeless world in two.

It made her feel numb.

That was good, because she had to speak. And she couldn’t let her voice reveal a single thing beneath.

“What exactly are you accusing me of, councilor?” It was almost the quietest thing she had said all day. The calm she felt was eerie.

“You tell me, Mother Confessor.”

“You’re the one speaking.” Kahlan raised an eyebrow. “Am I guilty of some wrongdoing? Do you have proof of me committing any sort of indiscretion? If you do, please, bring it forth. And if you don’t - if you have nothing to show besides your misguided and nearly-violating fears about my bloodline - I suggest you shut your dishonorable mouth before I relieve you of your seat on this council and send you back to Anderith, where you can tell your sovereign exactly why you’ve returned in shackles with your tail between your legs.”

Every eye in the room was on the Anderith councilor. He opened his mouth once, closed it, opened it again, closed it again, like a land-dragged fish too stupid to flop back towards the water. He finally scowled without saying a single word, glaring first at Kahlan and then at the floor, burning almost palpably with the degradation.

“Does anyone else question my honor, my authority, or my commitment to my duty? Speak now if you do.”

Every present stare was a stunned answer in the negative. Kahlan took a deep breath. It shook, hard. She hoped it wasn’t audible. Feeling dizzy, she was glad to take the opportunity to sit once again.

“If there are no further reports, we will move on to new business. Are there any matters which require a vote?” Her words felt stretched thin.

Someone began speaking, but she couldn’t focus enough to hear who it was or what they were saying. It was probably inconsequential. It all was.

All present, even Nielan in his furious shame, managed to move on, sinking back into the groove of the meeting. All save for one. For the third time that hour, Kahlan avoided the gaze Dennee had trained on her. This one, though, was different from the others before. Kahlan knew her sister well enough to tell that without looking.

Instead of plain concern or worry, it was concern mixed with pity, with confusion. With baffled, shocked suspicion.

And it made Kahlan feel so small she could have disappeared altogether right where she sat, vanishing from the First Chair.


	15. Rulers Make Bad Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here! This was a tough chapter to write and I am....sorry?? This is a slow burn, remember, and things can always get worse before they get better. Breathe deep. Don't run away, there's so much more to come. I promise you this!
> 
> Also, book readers, look at me bastardize _Stone of Tears_ up in these parts.
> 
> (also also, pretty sure this chapter sprained my brain!)

Kahlan went into that evening with the singular intent to destroy.

She had to get through the rest of the day, first.

The Council Chambers had cleared quickly and quietly after the final gavel pound, with each member showing some varied degree of eagerness to escape from the chilling tension the meeting had managed to provoke. Councilor Nielan had all but stormed out, muttering both his steaming frustration and icy chagrin under his breath. The others, too, gathered their things and skulked away, offering only the most cursory of glances at the Mother Confessor and the sharp, harsh glare she had adopted.

Only Alferon and Parre met her gaze and nodded in solidarity before leaving. And while Kahlan was appreciative of their gestures, she couldn’t force any true sign of it through the churning anger. She waited in the empty, silent room after all had departed, hoping to guarantee herself an undisturbed retreat to her chambers - but it was just an opportunity for the furious dismay to take deeper root. It rolled over itself again and again in her head, refusing to settle or dissipate, making her feel like someone impossibly from herself.

Nielan knew nothing. There was nothing _to_ know - Kahlan had done nothing wrong. She was attending to her duties, and even more on top of them, being one of the only souls even concerned with Shota’s promised tempest. She hadn’t taken a mate. She didn’t _want_ to take one, not yet, not like this. But she would, because she had sworn to it. She was resigned to it, even just today. Kahlan would have probably been halfway with child at this point if Nielan had successfully made his case without Parre’s intervention.

But Kahlan had done nothing wrong.

Nothing wrong, besides allowing herself to develop feelings for Richard Cypher. To acknowledge and act on those feelings, explicitly, boldly, and wholeheartedly, even if not carnally. To let those feelings grow into something that became another driving force for her, edging outside the realm of her role as Confessor to the Seeker. Kahlan had done nothing wrong besides allowing that trembling lack of control to creep in again in the wake of a shattered heart, to take root in the wreckage. Seeds of steadiness, of close care and some strange understanding, cast on ground that was somehow still fertile. Feelings for Cara, feelings that were spiralling with abandon, feelings that made her breath catch even as she sat there alone in the First Chair, presiding over a vacant room.

This was history repeating itself in duplicate. Viviane and Kieran, their cautionary tale, their utter destruction, coming back around - restless spirits with too much between. A selfish violation of sacred duty. Had Kahlan done this wrong? Love was something to fear, then. It still was now. Her hands all over Cara with emphatic invitation, despite the danger they threatened. Cara straddling her hips, heavy and strange and so terrifyingly thrilling. Their bodies connected by touch and kiss and devastating loss and heart. All things to fear. But fear did not preclude want - Kahlan was driven to distraction by that very want.

Maybe Kahlan was selfish, maybe she was weak. Maybe Cara was right - maybe she did need to better govern her emotions.

After Kahlan had dwelled upon the _maybes_ for enough time to ensure her solitary departure, she pulled herself from the First Chair and took her quiet leave.

Of course, Dennee - the specific confrontation Kahlan was hoping to avoid - was waiting for her right outside the door.

Kahlan clenched her jaw for just an instant on the way to forcing a smile. Dennee gave her one in return, terse and tight across her mouth, looking like a mere formality in a way that hit Kahlan right in the chest.

“Kahlan.” Her smile faded. “Can we speak?”

A grim sigh threatened - Kahlan held it back. “If I’m speaking truly, Dennee, I’m not in much of a mood to talk.” She hoped it was the weariness, not the flash of nervous dishonesty, that came across in her voice. Her move to leave was blocked as Dennee stepped into her path. Her expression made another shift from cold to concerned, and Kahlan was immediately and fully filled with guilt for all she was putting her sister through.

“I think we need to, though.” Dennee took one of Kahlan’s hands and held it, limp, in her own. “Please. For my own peace of mind, as your sister.”

The sigh managed to escape. There was no avoiding it, or a talk with Dennee. The determined look in her sister’s eye made that perfectly clear. “Alright, then. My chambers. Walk with me?”

The door to Kahlan’s solar had barely shut before Dennee was speaking with blunt abandon.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Why worry about me?” Kahlan immediately regretted the way both her phrasing and tone were caustic. Just another thread of control slipping out of her grip.

For her part, though, Dennee did not flinch at the sudden harshness. “You’re not yourself, Kahlan. You haven’t been, not really, not since you’ve returned. And I’m not sure what it is but it seems-”

“Maybe I’m _not_ myself, Dennee,” Kahlan cut her off, brushing past her to the mahogany table, placing her palms flat on its surface and leaning into it, willing her hands to stop shaking. “Tell me what reason I have to be myself, now. Tell me why I shouldn’t be tired of all of this. Please.”

Kahlan heard Dennee approach from behind, but she did not turn to look at her. She couldn’t. Her stomach was in knots. Dennee spoke anyway, close over her shoulder. “I don’t want to argue with you. I’m concerned about you. You’re so angry, all the time.” Kahlan tensed as Dennee touched the small of her back. Dennee noticed - her voice grew even softer, almost more defeated. “At first, I didn’t see it, or maybe I didn’t want to see it. It’s just in small ways, in small things. And I’m sorry for not noticing - I should know you as well as I know myself. You were hiding it well, but now I can see that you’re hurting. Please, Kahlan, let me help.”

After a moment’s pause, Kahlan finally turned, folding her arms across her chest in reaction to Dennee’s ambiguous gaze. There was so much lurking in her dark eyes, so different from the crystal-blue ones with which Kahlan had grown up, the ones which she had known for her whole life. For the first time, they seemed as unfamiliar as they always should have, full of concern and hurt and qualm and question. Kahlan cast her own eyes at the floor.

“Dennee.” Kahlan swallowed, shook her head. “You’re right. I am angry. Often, now. And I don’t like it either. You say you see it. But do you also see everything else I’m contending with?” Kahlan hoped, with everything she could muster, that Dennee couldn’t see. “Do you understand everything I’ve seen while we were apart from each other? Everything I’ve been through - everything that’s on my shoulders now?”

And then, something thorny and dangerous flashed in those unfamiliar eyes. Dennee’s voice reflected it. “I know you lost Richard. I know it devastated you, and that _still_ is devastating you. But not the only one to experience loss, Kahlan. You don’t get to claim it.”

With that simple phrase, Kahlan felt even worse than before. She was selfish, she was out of control. Of course Dennee knew unimaginable pain - the exact unimaginable pain that made every single other piece of this so impossibly complicated that it made Kahlan sick. Every fragment of everything felt twisted around each other, frayed within inches of snapping.

“Dennee, I…”

Dennee held up a hand, mouth drawn tight with the effort of setting aside hurt. “No. Please don’t apologize. This isn’t about me, I’ve done my mourning, here. I can put aside my own pain and burden for yours, if you’d let me.”

Kahlan had reason to doubt that.

“You know I can’t, though. I’m the Mother Confessor. I accepted the title. This is mine to bear.” She allowed her shoulders to droop for Dennee and Dennee alone, encumbered by the invisible weight. “There’s so much, little sister.” Her voice cracked. “I’m trying so hard, but it’s as though i can’t give enough. It hasn’t been enough since the moment I arrived - it’s been a mess. Hardly a single member of the council wants to listen to reason about anything. Nothing I say is reaching them. We’re in danger and nobody seems to care.”

“That’s not true. You’re doing just fine. You’re _you_ , Kahlan. This is what you were meant for.”

Kahlan had to stop herself from scoffing out. “I thought you said I wasn’t myself.”

“Now you’re just twisting my words.”

“You asked me what’s wrong. You said I’m angry.” Unwelcome tears were stinging at her eyes, and she blinked against them. “And I’ve _told_ you why. Like I said, like _you_ said, I’m not myself. Not here. Not having my warnings ignored at every turn, not moderating meetings like watching petulant children play a pointless game. I feel like I’m failing. I’m not making a difference, not like I was before, with Richard, and with Zedd and Cara. And the contrast is breaking me in two. I’m being reduced to a title and a dress, to a punishing hand and a womb.” That wasn’t her - there was so much more to Kahlan than that. Wasn’t there? There was so much she wanted. So much she had left behind, had let slip through her fingers. So much she wanted to reach for, but couldn’t. And the last and most powerful _want_ was threatening to fall from her lips with every passing second she was with Dennee. Cara, Cara’s mouth, the way her heart seized and her body vibrated every time they came close. It had to stay inside, even though every ounce of her was already screaming out with the truth.

“Is that what this is about?” Dennee murmured, narrowing her eyes. “About Nielan?”

Spirits, was _nobody_ listening?

The simplest thing Kahlan could do was to just agree and abandon all the rest with futility.

“The things he says are so violating.” Kahlan shuddered. “Don’t you agree? The way he’s almost desperate to get me with child is despicable. And _please_ don’t say he has a point. Even though I know you think that. It’s not what I need to hear from right now.”

“Alright. I do agree. He’s beginning to overstep.”

 _Beginning to_ was at least slightly better than taking his side, the way she nearly had last time. “I hate to get worked up like I did today, on full display like that. But showing that he was willing to let my daughter have a doubly-weak bloodline, from a disease _either_ of us could show in the future, mind you?” She shot a pointed look at Dennee. “And then to have the audacity to disrespect me the way he did? I saw red.” And she regretted it. But his probing words had disarmed her in the most personal, visceral way. A weakness used against her. Something to be feared. But she wanted.

Her head was a whirlwind even as Dennee fell silent, face suddenly flat, hand resting idly on the curve of her growing belly.

“Kahlan.” A deep, reluctant sigh, as though continuing to speak would bring something horrible to life. She pressed on despite the hesitation. “What was he talking about?”

Kahlan’s skin went hot and cold all at once.

“Your...what did he say? _Pipe dream_ , about taking a mate.” Dennee seemed to be forcing herself to hold Kahlan’s gaze. Kahlan wanted more than anything to look away. She knew that she couldn’t, not now. She let her face show nothing. “He said he wasn’t talking about Richard. Kahlan, what’s going on?”

Kahlan was aware of both how her heart had begun to point as Dennee was asking, and of how she had to control her face. She kept it calm, blank as untouched marble. A Confessor’s mask. Being a Confessor herself did not spare her from being read by another. Whatever words she spoke had to be true - but an evasion of the actual truth. And more guilt, then. Kahlan’s sole purpose was to pursue truth, no matter how desperately it was hidden. She was hiding it.

Kahlan could have told the truth. Kahlan _should_ have just told the truth. She had done nothing wrong. (Nothing wrong, besides disregarding Dennee’s pain for her own heart.)

Kahlan looked her sister in the eye and lied.

“He was trying to distract from his embarrassment.” A truth. Voice soft, voice hard, voice calm. “He knows nothing about me.” Another truth. He didn’t. Apparently, few did. Fewer than Kahlan thought. She couldn’t let that fact give her away. “He has no right nor reason to address me in that manner, and you know it.” A final truth. She hoped three were enough. “I hope you don’t doubt me, little sister. I’m not sure I could stand it right now.” Four truths, then - this last one had been unexpected. It brought brimming tears along with it.

There was so much Kahlan wanted; she wanted an impossible way to have them all.

Dennee started in that scrutinizing way for just an instant beyond Kahlan’s last word. Then, she softened. The look that flickered across her face was something close to remorseful shame.

“I don’t doubt you, Kahlan,” she promised, taking Kahlan’s hand again. “I never do. I’m sorry for making you think it. I just want you to be alright. Seeing that you’re not puts me on edge.”

Kahlan’s stomach clenched as she chanced a weak smile. “I’m trying to be. Really, I am. I’m trying to be _more_ than I am.”

“You don’t need to be.”

Dennee pulled Kahlan into a tight embrace. Kahlan felt its warmth, and knew Dennee was being genuine. But after a few breaths, she felt everything that lingered between them instead: Dennee’s pregnant belly, the shadow of Cara’s past deeds, Cara’s handprints on Kahlan’s skin, and all of the screaming words left unspoken. Kahlan’s new dishonesty. It hurt.

“Thank you, little sister.” It sounded steady enough. Steadier than Kahlan felt, herself.

Dennee let her head rest on Kahlan’s shoulder. “You know I’m always on your side, right? No matter what. Please believe me.”

“I know you are,” Kahlan whispered. “I do believe you.”

Four truths, more lies.

This last one was the boldest, the most despicable. Kahlan wasn’t sure if she believed Dennee at all.

* * *

After supper, Kahlan saw her opportunity to destroy come into view.

She had dined alone, barely touching her food, not even remembering whatever it was the scullery maids brought to her chambers. If her appetite hadn’t fled after the council meeting, it certainly did after Dennee left her chambers appeased with a falsehood. Kahlan had to wonder how long it would last.

Kahlan had to wonder why she couldn’t just tell her.

Cara had been slated to dine with her squad after training that evening, to engender bonding and camaraderie among her recruits. When she had told Kahlan of the plan the previous evening, she had made it seem like she was disgruntled by the idea. _Senseless waste of time_ , she had huffed. But something in the way she said it made Kahlan suspect she was actually looking forward to it - just a lilt in her voice that made Kahlan’s heart skip, made her smile despite the way Cara had rolled her eyes as she did.

Another smile like that felt close to unattainable, now. Kahlan wasn’t sure if Cara’s impending presence in her chambers would make her feel better or worse. She hoped better. She feared worse.

But as Cara came through the door like nothing was wrong, like nothing had happened between that morning and this moment - that Kahlan hadn’t watched her dressing, that Kahlan hadn’t endured that horrible meeting or that queasy conversation with Dennee - it was like the world slowing and calming, like being stolen away from everything. Cara looked at Kahlan in such an incredibly familiar way, one eyebrow raised, the same side of her mouth _nearly_ raised, eyes almost filled with some unknown but always-present question. Cara looked at Kahlan in a way that made her feel familiar to herself. Cara looked at Kahlan in a way that blew through all of the fog in her head and made her remember. Like she was known. Like she was even capable of being known in the first place.

Cara was listening. Cara knew her the way she wanted to be known.

Cara had already begun to smooth out the jagged edges of the day.

Kahlan found herself speaking before Cara could have even attempted to do so.

“Will you take me to the archery range?”

Cara stopped in her tracks and gave a quick shake of her head, blown back by the spontaneous request.

“What?”

The way she squinted her confusion was also so familiar that it made Kahlan’s heart jump into her throat. Kahlan tried not to imagine her naked as she had seen her waking up that morning.

“Exactly what I said,” Kahlan told her, determined. “I haven’t held a bow in a long time, and I’d like to practice. I was hoping you would take me.”

Cara sighed and rolled her eyes in a dramatic way that should have made Kahlan furious, but couldn’t have accomplished more of the opposite. “You mean right _now_?” Kahlan nodded again. “Kahlan, no. I’ve had enough archery practice for one day. I toiled with the children since morning, and did more instruction in the last twelve hours than I ever want to do again. And then I had to sit through what felt like twelve more hours of them eating like pigs and wanting to _talk_ to me.” Cara tossed her braid over her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest, cocking her hips to the side. “I’m ready to turn in, honestly.”

Her words stopped short when she saw that Kahlan’s face had dropped into a small frown, eyes had become like stone.

“ _Cara_ ,” Kahlan said again, enunciating her name with clear certainty. “I’d like you to take me to the archery range.”

Cara blinked.

“Difficult day?” she asked after a long bit of weighty silence.

Kahlan nodded.

“You want to take it out on the targets.” It didn’t leave her mouth as a question.

Kahlan nodded again, feeling like a child being appeased in the midst of a tantrum, but not really minding. Truly, though, she was looking for more than a sublimation of her anger. She was grasping at a way to feel more like herself, more like _them_. Alone together, far from the responsibilities of her seat. Away from trouble. Enjoying one another.

Cara let out another sigh, though this one was more gracious than the first. “Alright. We’ll go. Can it wait until I get out of my armor, at least?”

Kahlan found a tight little smile pulling across her lips. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she expected to feel. “I think I can handle that.”

Cara moved toward the bedroom to discard her armor. But as she passed Kahlan, she stopped for the briefest moment, letting the back of her hand graze Kahlan’s.

“I’m…” she murmured, looking down at her boots and then back up at Kahlan, through her lashes. The rest of the words tumbled out quickly. “I’m sorry your day was difficult.”

Kahlan said nothing. With Cara, she knew she did not need to. It wasn’t expected of her, unlike so many other demanding pieces. She just held Cara’s gaze and let a few of their fingers tangle, hidden, for an instant, before Cara - carefully and almost unwillingly - broke away.

* * *

“I’m not sure I can even draw this, Cara.”

Cara shook her head, hands on her hips, before running the fingers of one through her hair, free of its braid. “No, you have the strength. If it’s been a long time since you’ve wielded a bow, you likely need work on your technique. Try it.”

Kahlan raised the hefty bow and was once again struck by Cara’s endurance and might, and by how easy she made the action look. But as she pulled the string, arrow nocked by her cheek, she realized that Cara had been correct. It wasn’t as strenuous as she had thought it would feel. Her drawing shoulder fought back a bit, but she felt otherwise solid. “Like this?”

Her aiming arm trembled as Cara took an appraisal of her positioning from behind. Kahlan heard her click her tongue.

“Good. Not great. Adequate.”

Kahlan gave a dry chuckle as she relaxed her body, lowering the bow and arrow. “Thanks, I think.”

“I’m being honest. I also didn’t tell you to drop. I wanted to see you release from that position. Again.”

Looking back over her shoulder at Cara, Kahlan raised an eyebrow. “I’m not one of your recruits, you know.”

“You wanted a lesson,” Cara pointed out, narrowing her eyes and leaning in closer. “I’m not going to hold back criticism. I don’t care if you’re the Mother Confessor.” And just then - stolen away in the abandoned archery range, covered by twilight and the sound of late summer insects that could still somehow be heard in the city - Kahlan agreed. She was having difficulty caring if she was the Mother Confessor, either. “You could have come here yourself if you just wanted to shoot with abandon and waste arrows.”

“I didn’t want to come here by myself.” Kahlan’s voice was soft, but the words meant more than they spelled out. “I wanted to come here with you. I wanted to be with you.”

Silence, for just a few heartbeats, besides the invisible buzzing chorus filing the air around them. Cara stared at her, into her eyes, so deep into _her_. Into who she was and who thought she wanted to be. Into her want, in general. Cara’s jaw tightened, eyes darkening, and Kahlan hoped Cara believed what she was saying. She was telling the truth.

Cara gave no indication of belief in one direction or the other; she just gave Kahlan a swift upward flick of her pointer finger. “Up.”

Kahlan rolled her eyes, lifted, drew, and aimed. With the arrow’s fletching touching her anchor point where her jaw met her ear, Kahlan felt the trembling tension of the bowstring and suddenly related to it.

“Loose.”

Kahlan let go of the arrow and watched it sail over the target and far away.

Cara smirked. “Aiming for the Wizard’s Keep?”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Who’s teasing?” Cara approached, plucking another arrow from the quiver at her back and offering it to Kahlan. “Here. Try again. I’m going to help you.”

When Kahlan was in position, Cara got to work making adjustments. Her boot gently rustled against the hem of Kahlan’s white dress, nudging her forward foot even further forward to widen her base. A gloved hand on Kahlan’s hip turned her torso more properly. Drawing arm lifted with fingertips on Kahlan’s elbow - palm pressed against her ribs around to her back to remind her to use the correct muscles. The same touch she would use on any member of her squad, but affecting Kahlan with such ridiculous difference that it made her head swim. Every tracing fingertip, every lingering bit of contact raised gooseflesh at Kahlan’s neck, made the deepness of her core churn and ache. Being connected to Cara through deliberate, express touch, chaste and methodical as it was, sent her heart fluttering and then pounding. Remembering the way she had touched herself that morning only made everything else more intense. Her breath hitched. It must have been audible - Cara must have noticed, because she paused, stilled, and let the hand on Kahlan’s ribs trail just slightly lower, to the indentation at the small of her back. Her mouth was so close to Kahlan’s ear that Kahlan could feel her breath, and it made her shiver.

The shivering should have become worse when Cara whispered.

“Loose.”

But somehow, clarity. As though the distance between their yearning bodies and the target had somehow compressed. Like Kahlan could reach out and touch it with her hand.

Kahlan released the arrow, and it sunk into the target’s second ring with a resolute _thunk_.

“See?” Cara remarked with something just slightly warmer than the smirk she had just been wearing as she watched Kahlan’s surprised thrill. “You could still do better, though. Again. Try to replicate how I positioned you. You were very strong, there.”

Almost not as strong as Kahlan should have been. She took the arrow Cara held out and tried again.

Kahlan continued to improve shot after shot. Cara stood by, mostly quietly offering arrows, but every so often giving reminders and (more sparingly, but no less pointedly) praise. The action was like a balm for the clamor in Kahlan’s head: learning to direct each arrow exactly where she wanted it to go. This was more than catharsis and sublimation of aggression. This was an exercise in agency, the sort of which Kahlan hadn’t felt in nearly an entire moon. And it felt incredible, force flowing from her fingers, lightening her and blowing the clouds from her mind.

She would have to express her sincere gratitude to Cara, later. After she was finished shooting.

The moon above them was full and bright by that time, allowing for clear vision even in the darkness. Nary a soul had passed them by while Kahlan took try after try. She found the capacity to _grin_ when she hit her best shot - just to the upper right of the target’s center.

“Nearly perfect,” Cara commented when Kahlan looked to her for approval. “Go on. Another.”

Kahlan’s lips were still curled into a tight, content smile as she drew the next arrow, aimed, and prepared to release.

Before she could, though, she all but folded in half towards her back leg as Cara gave her a hard poke in the side.

“ _Ow_!” she hissed, nearly dropping the bow and arrow altogether as she whirled around to see Cara looking very smug. “Cara, what was _that_ for?”

“Your accuracy is passable,” Cara said, shrugging, “but accuracy means nothing if you can’t shoot while distracted. There will never be these perfect quiet and still conditions. Training with distractions will save your life.”

It made sense, but. “Did you have to jam your finger into my ribs so hard, though? I’m going to bruise.”

“You’re fine. Stop complaining. Go again, you’re doing well.”

Kahlan let out a huff, but raised the bow again all the same.

Cara leveled her with a second poke to her other side.

“Alright.” Kahlan found it within herself to laugh, the stress of the day having melted away, leaving room to see the humor in this particular situation. “I think I’m finished. We can work on _distraction_ another time. My arm’s starting to get sore. Here.” She thrust the bow at Cara with a playful quirk of her eyebrows. “Maybe you can show me how it’s done. You shoot, and I’ll distract you.”

Cara took the weapon from her, matching her lighthearted expression. “You can try, Kahlan.” And for the first time that evening, Kahlan felt that Cara wasn’t just placating her; she was having fun, too.

Cara hit her stance and let an arrow fly before Kahlan could react. It hit the wooden target with more splintering force than most of Kahlan’s attempts combined.

“Showing off for me?”

“If you’re going to try to distract me, you need to be quicker than me. Don’t hesitate.”

Cara readied another arrow and pulled back the string. Kahlan, with Cara’s advice, saw and took her opportunity to jab Cara in the ribs. It was like slamming her finger into a rock - Cara didn’t even squirm, sending the arrow right where she intended it to go. Kahlan frowned and tried again. Same result. Cara’s face was stoic as she landed another successful shot. Kahlan supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised - a wave of nausea crept up on her as she tried not to consider all of the horrible things through which Cara had probably been trained to focus.

But the game continued, with Kahlan failing to shake her time after time. Her closest attempt involved a full-strength, two-handed shove to Cara’s shoulder blades as she aimed. Without so much as a grunt, Cara caught her abrupt forward momentum, righted herself, re-aimed, and loosed in the space of a blink.

The arrow pierced the center of the target.

Kahlan shook her head, smiling softly, fingertips at her temple. Cara, far from noticing her humored frustration, nocked yet another arrow, having apparently forgotten all of her feelings of tedium surrounding taking Kahlan here tonight. She was pure concentration and raw prowess as Kahlan watched her work, loosing from different positions - crouched, then on a knee, then with her opposite arm, then with an oblique aim at the target in the lane beside them. The way her body moved through the dim, shadowed light struck Kahlan straight in the chest, sure as one of her arrows. The feeling radiated through her to her spine, tingling to her fingers and through the rest of her, cracking off into the cooling air. Kahlan didn’t feel cool. Her cheeks were flushed. She swallowed, distracted once again as her gaze trailed along the tight curves of Cara’s leathers.

Then, it dawned on her. What could distract Cara. Kahlan wanted. And here, they were alone again, together, as alone as they were before they made the decision to set out, shrouded by shadow and night from every probing eye, every expectation and every inevitable eventuality. From every demand of her very existence. The moon’s muted brightness was making her feel drunk, pushing her forward, out of control. She was already out of control - her anger, her wanting, her dishonesty, herself. What was control, here? Cara was control, she was its very definition, she was measure and composure and skill. And Kahlan knew Cara wanted. Cara had asked Kahlan to touch her, had told Kahlan to put her hands all over her body. Cara stood, returning to her original position. Her body was still right there, with nobody else to see.

Kahlan felt like fire, pulse racing, blood rushing, head spinning, as she moved up close behind Cara. Her own body was humming as she pressed against Cara’s back, suddenly-greedy hands splaying over the spot where the sides of Cara’s thighs met her hips.

A pause. Kahlan’s breath quickened. Cara’s stopped altogether.

“Kahlan,” Cara finally murmured. Only her eyes darted halfway back in Kahlan’s direction.

“I thought you were going to shoot,” Kahlan whispered, remembering how close Cara’s lips were to her ear, hoping to recreate the proximity.

Cara released and hit the target, same as before. She also made no attempt to remove herself from Kahlan’s hold as she concentrated on aiming again. The night quiet, though, had found a swift thickness that made Kahlan shudder. Her palms skimmed over Cara’s leather from her hips to her stomach, where she could feel taut muscle, the tensed core, and she wondered if it was held so tight from technique or from Kahlan’s touch. She felt so strong. Kahlan bit her lip and needed the feel of her skin.

As Cara loosed, the bowstring sent silent tremors into the air to join the ones bouncing between their bodies. Kahlan’s heavy gaze was fixed on Cara’s jaw, but a quick glance away revealed that she had hit the target, but only at the third ring. The thought of what her touch was doing to Cara sent her unhinged, throbbing with her entire body. Her good judgement, caving in, crumbling, breaking down just as she had predicted. Destroyed. Just for now. Maybe for good. She wasn’t herself, her wandering hands weren’t herself. But this could be. They could be.

Cara gave a noticeable swallow, even cleared her throat, before nocking another arrow. The tiny noise overcame Kahlan. Her volition shifted from distraction to need.

In the utter absence of control, Kahlan used trembling, clumsy fingers to brush Cara’s hair away from her neck, and pressed her lips against the revealed skin. Her palms, then, dismantled and needing and impatient, returned to Cara’s body, slipping up her torso all at once to cup her breasts. Kahlan gasped at the feeling of them, of another’s body, of _Cara_ ’s body so plainly in her hands. She breathed helplessly with her mouth open against Cara’s neck, allowing her tongue and teeth to graze against her before she closed her lips on the skin once more.

Cara jerked just as she released the arrow. It flew completely out of sight.

“You missed,” Kahlan breathed, lips grazing Cara’s ear, her entire body crying out to claim more.

The bow hit the ground, useless and forgotten, with complete lack of ceremony as Cara whipped around and grabbed Kahlan by the waist, yanking her in even closer and searing every bit of her with a desperate, deep, fevered kiss. Kahlan reeled at the abrupt pressure of body on body, at how Cara’s mouth was opening against hers without warning. But despite the shock, she pressed back just as hard, with just as much fervor and a sharp gasp into Cara’s mouth as she opened her own. Cara’s hands slid over her hips to her backside, grasping firmly. Cara was out of control, too. Kahlan wasn’t alone. They were both alone, together.

And then they were moving through space, blindly, eyes closed as mouths and tongues worked. Cara’s momentum pushed Kahlan backward, stumbling but not caring until her back collided roughly with the rampart wall. Cara pinned Kahlan there with her hips, hands coming to lean on the stone on either side of Kahlan’s head, neither daring to move the wrong way, to break the kiss. Kahlan fumbled to hold on to Cara, finally finding purchase on the backs of her thighs, just below the curve of her rear. There was no space left between them, but still too much. Kahlan needed so much less. A muffled moan tumbled from her mouth as she found herself grinding against Cara’s thigh, which had slipped between her own. Her body knew this better than she did. Her body knew what it wanted better than Kahlan did. Her lungs knew to breathe deep against the ache between her legs, held tight against Cara. Her spine knew to tingle. Her hands knew to roam.

Kahlan felt unbound. Cara flexed against her, clasping Kahlan’s lower lip between her teeth. Kahlan felt undone.

She felt herself beginning to pant as she opened her eyes to see Cara’s open, too, heavy-lidded and wild, dark with longing and disbelief alike. Their mouths stilled, lips parted, still bumping together as they breathed with exertion and let the bewildered stare pass between them. Kahlan rolled her hips against Cara again without conscious meaning to do so, working on her body’s demand. Cara’s eyes fluttered.

“Cara.” A strangled, breathless whisper.

Cara’s lips were still all but pressed to Kahlan’s as she spoke.

“Kahlan.”

The way she said her name was throaty, uncertain. It made Kahlan feel weightless.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Neither do I.” So raw. So much of what Kahlan wanted. To not know, to not have to know. “Are you…” The word _sure_ never escaped.

Kahlan felt the last thread snap. Her voice cracked along with it, terrified and wanting and determined and defiant.

“I am.” Kahlan shivered. She didn’t know if that one was a truth or a lie. “My chambers.”

Cara stopped breathing, but had enough air to answer.

“Your chambers.”

* * *

All of it was destruction in its purest form. An invitation for danger - obliteration, annihilation. Nearly three decades of control and denial and abject fear, staring Kahlan in the face and collapsing into heaps of pained rubble. Her hands shook. Her hands were still her own. She could control them, and do more. She could be more than she was resigned to being. This was an extension of the agency she felt loosing every single one of those arrows. This was ignorance, willful and loud, wishful and craving.

The fear was still there. Kahlan was just angry and numb enough to move through it without the sensation that she was burning alive. She still had no idea what she was doing. But that didn’t matter. Not when her yearning skin was feeling this way, so new, so frightened, but so very much _itself_ that all hope of reserve had dwindled. There were ways around everything. Kahlan just needed to find them. She was burning, breaking. Scared. Lightened. Dangerous. Everything she was, everything she was not supposed to be.

Cara had to speak their way through the doors of Kahlan’s chambers, since Kahlan’s own voice was failing her.

There was no need for words as the heavy doors closed behind them, confining them in yet another private little world. The thought of it made Kahlan balk - made her throb, made her need even more. Gripping the open collar of Cara’s leathers, Kahlan pulled her in and continued where they had left off, as though the apprehensive journey from the archery range to her chambers hadn’t happened, as though it had always been just them, wrapped up and short of breath. Delirious grasping hands, the want for purchase on bare skin. Cara was tugging off her gloves as she kissed Kahlan, urging her with her hips, moving together, stumbling over piles of abandoned codices and other ancient books, falling apart at the seams just like Kahlan. So completely pulled to pieces, tumbling out of order.

The mahogany table was behind them, Kahlan knew. And Cara knew, too, because her now-bare hands moved to Kahlan’s waist, lifting her like she weighed nothing at all and setting her on its edge. Kahlan hooked her legs behind Cara’s, bringing her closer, holding her in, groaning helplessly against Cara’s lips as Cara’s hands cupped her face, fingers running through and fisting in her hair. It was all right there. Every urge that had wracked her, every thought about Cara’s body she did not understand. Every terrifying feeling screaming from a loaded heart, a full chest. It was all right there for her to touch. Her hands, they touched, skimming from Cara’s wrists to her shoulders, across her collarbones to her breasts. Kahlan wanted the leathers gone, wanted her dress gone, wanted to cast aside everything between them. Wanted to cast the world into just them. Wanted to bring Cara into her bones.

And Cara responded to her touch with a sharp sigh, and kissing a trail across Kahlan’s jaw to her ear, down her neck, over the exposed skin of her clavicle and chest, and the flurry of sensation sent Kahlan rushing in a way she could hardly contain. She needed to contain. She kept control, white-knuckled grip, digging into Cara’s back, fingernails catching on leather. And to her body, everything was good. Everything felt mystifying, fluid, aching, the way it was supposed to feel. Human, not weapon. Formed, not created. Free, not shackled. Ripping the cage door open, not just rattling at it with futile effort.

Cara’s mouth halted its action, hands fell to the table aside Kahlan’s hips, and Kahlan nearly demanded that she continue. But then she saw how Cara was looking at her - lips parted, eyes intent but also shaded by some raw exposure so uncommon in those sea-green irises. Indecision, doubt, deep, behind them, a thought, choosing whether to say or not say. Her cheeks were flushed. The vein in her forehead was visible, and not from anger, not from fight-exertion. No, from something else. Kahlan’s chest expanded as she thought of how she wanted to graze it with the pad of her thumb.

Before she could reach out, Cara made the choice to speak.

“You’ve…” Trailed off. Leaned forward, foreheads pressed together. Eyes squeezed, head turned. Right hand, only the right, into a fist. A shudder, hunched shoulders. Eyes, again, open, intense, going right through Kahlan, going right through everything. Hesitant lungs, one steadying breath before forcing out something so true it hurt. “You’ve made me feel worthy.”

And Kahlan broke down into every little piece of it, reaching for her face and pulling her in, swallowing the words in a kiss, taking in the weight of them before they decided to disappear. Cara shook for an instant before arching into Kahlan, all relief and renewed vigor. Seen, heard, just as Kahlan desired to be.

So Kahlan made her own words heard, broken, half plea, half command, some awkward space between, into the kiss.

“Need to feel you. Like you said.” A gasping breath, then kissing again. “Bed. Now, Cara.”

For once, Kahlan was glad Cara never hesitated.

On the twenty-step journey there, Kahlan began tugging at the laces at the back of Cara’s neck, growing flustered as she fought with them.

“Just let me,” Cara choked out in a gruff whisper, reaching back to free herself, shrugging and loosening her garments until they were pooling away from her upper body. By the time they crossed the threshold into Kahlan’s room, she was naked from the waist up, and Kahlan’s fingertips were sinking into tight muscle, under disarmingly soft skin, instead of just tight leather. Standing at the foot of the bed, Kahlan could have had a much easier time with the laces of her Confessor dress, but Cara beat her to it, making quicker work of them than she had of her leathers. Kahlan’s corset, too, and underskirts, all abandoned there on the carpet, promptly followed by the rest of Cara’s suit.

It was a frenzy. This was so fast. This was what Kahlan wanted, what she was afraid of. Moving onto the bed, the first feeling of skin on skin, breast to breast, hands roving and grasping, nearly sent her into heaving shambles. Cara feeling her in shockingly gentle yet emphatic ways, ways in which nobody had felt her before, ways she had never felt herself. Lips, on the part of her skull just behind her ear. A full palm curved against one of her buttocks, holding their writhing bodies together. Cara’s other hand at her breast, kneading, hard and sensitive nipple caught in between her index and middle finger in a way that made Kahlan gasp. Her body, naked, bare, but not ashamed, not shy, not truly, simply spiraling in the act of being shared. Being known by someone other than herself, barely known by herself in the first place. Her body frightened her.

And Kahlan. Unaware of where she began, where she ended, trying to hold into her own body as fervently as she was holding Cara’s. Wet, _so_ wet, aching and pulsing, more aroused than she had ever been, immolated by Cara’s mouth and Cara’s flesh against her. And Cara could feel it, how soaked she was, Kahlan realized with a sudden moan, because Cara’s thigh had slipped between Kahlan’s legs and against her. It was embarrassing, it was new, it was what she wanted. She was in control. She was strong. She was in control and she was afraid. She didn’t have to be afraid - not of Cara - but afraid of herself, afraid of what she was doing, afraid of not knowing what she was doing. She hardly knew anything.

And Kahlan had either frozen or Cara could hear anxious and rapid thoughts, because she was pulling away, coming up to her knees and gazing down at Kahlan, hand resting idly on her thigh. Her chest was heaving with unbridled desire, and her breasts in the moonlight made every fragment of Kahlan scream with yearning.

“Kahlan,” she panted, gaze burning, speaking with some strange slow urgency, “I won’t touch you unless you ask me to. Unless you’re ready, and collected, and you want it.” And with a sudden surge of exhilarated bewilderment, the measured and almost-rehearsed words made it clear to Kahlan just how much Cara must have thought about this very moment. “But you can touch me. Any way. Anything you want.” She paused, jaw tight, eyes intense. A shaking exhalation, that same flash of guarded vulnerability. “Keeper take me, I need you to touch me.”

Kahlan needed to learn not to hesitate; this was her first chance to practice. Mustering her courage, she rose to kneel as well, facing Cara and drawing near. With a steadying swallow, she buried her mouth in the crook of Cara’s neck, fingers tracing over the dimples at the small of her back. Cara let a tiny groan come from low in her throat, hands almost hovering over Kahlan’s hips, seemingly touching only through the heat they were throwing off. Kahlan tried to trust her hands, to let them wander where they wanted. Cara trusted them. They took in the feeling of leanness, of defined muscle, of flushed skin. A thumb brushing past one of Cara’s nipples made her shiver against Kahlan, another brand-new sensation. Her fingertips found the scar she had seen that morning, and she ran her fingers over it from start to end like she promised.

Something, then, coming from deep in her mind, something forgotten, made her feel that this moment was right. An echo from the void that said: _this is fated_. Her mind wasn’t clear, her thoughts were everywhere and nowhere. Her thoughts were wrapped up in Cara, in her body, and in the way she was breathing so heavily, because of what Kahlan was doing to her. And in her heart, and in _you’ve made me feel worthy_.

And between her legs.

Kahlan’s shaking hand followed her thoughts. Trailing down Cara’s stomach, through the thatch of dark blonde hair below, to cup her at the apex of her thighs. Cara’s breath hitched at the contact. Kahlan’s breath hitched as she felt how wet Cara was, too, already so slick on her fingers. Wet for her. Pleasure, instead of pain.

Without breaking their shared and loaded gaze, Kahlan slipped two fingers inside of Cara, watching in anxious awe as Cara’s eyes fluttered and rolled, accompanied by a hissed _yes, Kahlan_. And there in her eyes was everything. Lust, need, traces of fear. Pieces that had been there since their wayward pine, since Dunshire, since Kahlan could even remember. The jigsaw-fit of their shortcomings, how they were more similar than different after all. The wrong in one being good for the wrong in the other. Love. Love was there, too. Kahlan felt it, and Cara did, too. _You’ve made me feel worthy_. A way of saying it. Kahlan couldn’t breathe.

And Kahlan had no idea what she was doing. Still. Maybe ever. She thought she knew, at one point. Now, she certainly didn’t. Cara wasn’t used to this. Cara wasn’t used to being with anyone who didn’t know what they were doing. Cara was urging Kahlan on, nodding, groaning, rocking her hips against where they were joined, trying to buy friction. But that thought came thundering back. Cara deserved so much more than this - Cara deserved so much more than Kahlan could give her.

Everyone deserved more than Kahlan could give them. Two parts of her, so separate, neither able to put a whole into anything. Her heart, her duty, both fractured and weak, each unable to stand on its own. Both ripping her apart, tugging in opposite directions. She was weak in the middle. Still inside of Cara, frozen, Kahlan had suddenly lost her hold on what was cloud and what was clarity. What she felt for Cara, what she felt for everything, was impossible not to see but also impossible to reconcile. The darkness was rushing back, every obstacle in the way, driving through her with relentless, whipping ferocity. Dennee. Nielan, her duty, a mate. Her bloodline. Richard, Richard’s death, the Sword of Truth, lost. The Midlands. The tempest, its prophecy. How she was failing at everything. How she loved Cara, how Cara had become everything. How this wasn’t fair. How none if it was fair. How Cara deserved so much more, deserved everything.

She hadn’t noticed that she had begun to sob. Full-body, gasping, panicking, but without tears. Cara was gaping at her through the thrashing, confused, eyes wide, eyes hurt. This had to end. This wasn’t fair.

This was when Kahlan withdrew her hand.

“Cara, I can’t,” she rasped through the heaving grief, feeling the brittle world crack with her words, fall through her fingers.

“Please, Kahlan.” Devastated eyes, the smallest voice Kahlan had ever heard her use. It was ruinous. “Please.” Every cruel illusion of possibility was receding in her gaze. In both of their gazes.

“I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s not fair. To you, to anyone.” Kahlan’s head was shaking, her hands were grasping and releasing into futile fists. She was awful, in every way. But. “But you don’t have to go, you can stay, I want you to stay with-”

Cara was already tearing herself from the bed, having moved through shock to fury, pulling on her leathers with much less grace than she had that morning. Her eyes were pure hurt, purely broken.

“Cara, please stay.”

“No!” Cara all but shouted, and then immediately cringed. She clenched her jaw, clenched every muscle until she was quaking. The very image of patience and resolve worn thin. Kahlan balked. Without noticing, or noticing and not caring, Cara finished her thought through gritted teeth. “No. I can’t stay. You’re all I want, and I can’t.”

If Kahlan wasn’t shattered before, she was shattered at the words Cara left hanging between them as she finished yanking on her leathers and stormed out without a backward glance. Kahlan called out after her, sobs picking up with vehemence, met only with the heavy sound of a door closing.

Falling back in the bed, pounding at it once with her fists, the tears finally came.

Kahlan went into that evening with the singular intent to destroy.

She had manifested every single scrap of that intention.

Kahlan had done so many things wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading and stickin' along for the ride!


	16. Everything I Want (All You Dread)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Major apologies for the delay on this one - I got kidnapped by some nuns ~~stream _Warrior Nun_ on Netflix~~ and then my work sector's been tough with all of these pandemic adjustments. But rest assured that the Mother Confessor and her Mord-Sith still take up a large fraction of my brain cells, and I'm not letting this story fall away! So much more of the journey left to tell, and I sincerely hope you stick with me throughout it. 
> 
> A quick update for you all, now, as I prepare to delve back into the meat of it! Enjoy.
> 
> listen: ["Sour Breath" - The Devil Wears Prada](https://open.spotify.com/track/7aHcIWhVPLBiM1l2D6rvZ0)

The feeling of breaking did not rear up as a stranger.

In truth, it was the most markedly familiar sensation Cara had felt in months. Not like the pin at her chest. Not like the glassy and genuine admiration in the eyes of her recruits. Not the way the courtyard-and-street glances had begun to transform from surprised fear or stifled fury to tentative, careful respect. Not the weight settling in her ribs at the sight of Kahlan’s sparkling-eyed smile - an entity which was surfacing more and more rarely itself. Not Kahlan’s bedsheets, Kahlan’s closeness, Kahlan’s desperate hands, her longing mouth. Kahlan’s skin, grasped all over, claimed, ruined. Being put into the throes of pleasure, then, by the touch that could destroy her. _Would_ destroy her.

(Kahlan’s touch could destroy her in more ways than the obvious.)

Kahlan. The sensation of her. Just her. Words, pure heart, _beating_ , beating all the way to the equinox, beating for what? Too much push and pull. Familiar, unfamiliar, _too_ familiar, false, hopeless, a fracture running through everything. Just Kahlan. And even thinking of the name, now, passed over and stormed away without a backward glance, was enough to send Cara’s chest heaving, jaw tightening. Her own empty bedchambers were cold. That, too, was unfamiliar.

But the breaking feeling, no, this was so closely-held. Brittle pieces bending and cracking. Bones, merely chalk and glass. Skin on fire, blood pulsing, carrying venom, with the inability to swallow any cure. The reflex to scream, but no air in her lungs to relieve the deep urge. Everything falling away. Her very _thoughts_ falling away, spiraling down into eternity. Control. She could control her emotions. It was the only damnable thing she _could_ do. Now was not the time to break. But she _had_ no control and she _was_ breaking. She was already broken. Cara was the breaking itself, every inch of her thralled. _You thrill me. All the time_. Words had the power to break. And she hurt, with a spinning head and a smoldering, disoriented rage in her throat.

So many times broken. Nine years old, bruised and rat-bitten. Her father on his knees before her, pleading in wretched, helpless silence: _please, Cari._ And somehow only _now_ could Cara hear his voice, even though she couldn’t remember his voice at all, or her mother’s. Just his eyes, begging, despairing, teeming with several kinds of anguish. And Cara wished she could have read those eyes, then. Maybe she wouldn’t have carried out the unspeakable; maybe this all would have been different if she could have just read a soul, _his_ soul, one of the souls that engendered her own. If she could read a soul like Kahlan. _Kahlan_. No. ( _I can’t_.)

Broken again at twenty-five. Forced to her _own_ knees, skull ringing, blood in her mouth, blade in her hair. Dispatched, dismantled, but not dishonored. Not fully. Not when there was still a Lord Rahl to serve and a bond to tether her to that vastness of honor - not when she still had a purpose. She _still_ had a purpose. As long as the Mother Confessor’s pure heart beats. _Take care of her. Keep her safe_. The last command from her master. Richard’s simple but pivotal words invoking solemn duty, extending through time and the veil of death - even if the memory of his voice had grown distorted. The bond cemented the words. And now the bond was smoke, but the words remained.

Cara’s body did not feel like her own. Not since it had been touched by Kahlan like this. And before Cara realized its actions, it had carried her to the mantelpiece. Her hands, the ones that had just felt all of Kahlan’s skin, were grasping an abandoned Agiel. Cold and lifeless. Rendered obsolete. A testament to the ultimate casualty. And it took every bit of Cara’s remaining effort to simply place the weapon back on the shelf and not hurl it across the room as she wanted to. Because even though there was no shock of pain, she still felt a phantom of the bond. Richard’s ghost, still watching, still asking. Asking so much. And despite this _other_ , new pain, she still carried the weight of her duty to Richard Rahl.

Then, new words cut in over Richard’s, reflected back in Shota’s voice. _Cara Mason._ What name was hers, now? _Bonded to another. Dark of hair, finest of face_. An utterance that could not be reconciled with experience. How could _bonded_ and _severed_ exist like this, at once?

And though she tried not to let the words bring forth the image they described ( _it’s not fair_ ), visions of the Kahlan swarmed her head and sunk in, calling on all of these tiny breakings Cara hadn’t noticed until now. Until they had altered the very shape of her. The Mother Confessor’s hand on her throat, more often than was fathomable - a threat in the Drowning Cave near Ehrengard, a tool of execution in Stowecroft, an weapon of apoplectic grief in their wayward pine. Arms, too, around her, dismantling and intoxicating, in Dunshire and Aldermont and right here, in Aydindril, in the room from which Cara had just made herself scatter. Each embrace, increasing in ease and intensity with every iteration, had been an attestation to some nascent connection, sparking and swelling and changing, changing her, breaking her. And considering every single one of these breakings, why were so many branded by Kahlan’s shadow?

(The answer was too clear and Cara’s being wavered with it.)

All of it, tonight. That tenderhearted, private little grin, the one Kahlan had begun to share with Cara alone, breaking through the apparent dismalness of her day. Bodies taken to and through the final brink of restraint. Kahlan’s corset falling away, all gorgeous skin, eyes alight with both fear and uncontrollable wanting as she yanked Cara into the bed with insistent vehemence. Her mouth parting for a surprised groan as Cara’s thigh found its way between her legs. The way Cara saw Kahlan’s eyes change in the moment when Kahlan’s uncertain but demanding fingers slipped inside of her, and how it felt, and knowing it was wanted and knowing _she_ was wanted, intangible words turned to plain action - that moment of sheer but hapless union.

And then Kahlan, pulling away. Sobbing, withdrawing her hand and her brazen reach and disrupting the melding of all things: bodies, minds, the pure essentiality of connection, every laid-bare vulnerable intention. Every scrap of significance between them cast into schism - a mismatch of wishful expectations and heavy reality.

 _You’ve made me feel worthy_.

The words were reluctant, and they felt raw as they departed, but they were not coerced. They were measured and deliberate and true, spoken freely, called out plainly from the chest. Cara had wanted to say them. She shouldn’t have said them. She wanted to say them and she _did_ say them, proving these things to Kahlan, to herself, some kind of clumsy promise for some kind of _more_. For better words that she could finally learn to say, not just think and suffer with. That word she was trying to show and to be. Love. She was trying too hard to be the word itself.

And now, there were no more words. Certainly none that could be spoken without her throat ripping itself out. And the ones she _had_ spoken were evidently utterly untrue.

Cara bit at her tongue. She swallowed hard, clenching her fists. Her throat was still there. That was the most she could tell.

Because with each singular moment of wreckage unfurled, here, Cara couldn’t shove away the awareness of an obvious and grievous distinctness that colored tonight’s particular ruining.

Cara had cut her teeth on abject pain. Through the years, it became her dwelling, her comfort, her pure point of thriving. The thrum of it, high and bold through her system, taking her to the brink of bodily existence, making her better, forming her thoughts and pulling her apart to keep her together.

Cara was broken. She was just shards and ends, all jagged edges, both a constant threat of and reminder of damage.

But every jagged edge could be rounded out. Any could be smoothed to some crooked semblance of evenness.

No. That wasn’t even the feeling searing through her.

This was.

By its nature, every jagged edge, left unaltered, had a perfectly-congruent counterpart. And if these disjointed pieces crossed over one another, in the right way, at the right instant, in just the right light, they could become an undisrupted entirety. Not broken anymore, fitted into quiet.

Kahlan’s edges were ragged, too - something Cara never would have expected from the Mother Confessor. Not from that white dress that seemed too terrifyingly immaculate for Cara to touch, until she had touched it. Not from that shimmering blue gaze which softened from contempt to gentle and quiet intimacy. But brokenness manifested in many ways. With new clarity that made her nauseous, Cara could see. Kahlan was broken. By unimaginable loss, by the struggle to grasp at the shreds of her duty, by every word of warning falling on deaf ears, by the weight of every burden - of every bit of power and weaponized existence she never asked for - resting on her shoulders alone.

That night, skin to skin, with Kahlan inside of her, both wanting, both sharing, both desperate and vulnerable and angry and somehow rejoicing, Cara had felt their pieces cross. And they had fit. They had fit and then they had tumbled away before the fitting could condense.

This hollow ache, the one moving from Cara’s chest to her spine to her throat, wasn’t from falling apart.

It was from that split second of wholeness that came from moving over and through Kahlan, from Kahlan moving over and through her, bursting from the congruence of their demolished fragments.

It wasn’t pain at the brink of death. It was destruction at the brink of something opposite.

It had rushed over her as a remembering of what she had been lacking since she was so small. A full heart, beating despite its deepest scars. Seeing who she truly was reflected in someone else’s face. In Kahlan. Kahlan pulled away. Cara had been trying until her bones had begun to burn with everything she wasn’t, and Kahlan had pulled away with a definitive _no_.

And only a stain of scornful anger remained where these pieces had crossed and aligned.

Anger was a gift. Anger had so many glorious uses. It was to be harnessed, commanded, and sent hurtling back into the world in a flurry of violent physicality. But not anger like this: imprecise, unmeasured, wounded, strewn blindly in every direction yet kept so balled up that Cara’s body could have split open. This was anger with a nonsensical target Cara couldn’t rationalize in any part of her mind.

This was anger trying to coincide with another form of passion, each attempting to annihilate the other and wracking Cara in the process. Undisguised and uncontrollable collateral damage. Damaged. Always damaged. It didn’t matter.

The choice to crumple onto the bed would probably prove to be a useless one, but it was the only one Cara could make. Her vibrating body curled into itself on one side, muscles bunched, jaw clenched, and she cursed the fact that she couldn’t even displace some of this churning, biting, helpless hell with the more favorable pain from her Agiel. She wished she could hold an Agiel. She wished she could hold Kahlan. She could have stayed there, in Kahlan’s chambers. She should have stayed. She couldn’t stay. _You’re all I want_. It was true. Her first thoughts of getting lost in Kahlan’s bed were also true. And despite her attempts at worthiness - despite the way the worthiness had begun to feel so much closer, the way Kahlan had begun to feel so much closer - those divides between _wanting_ and _deserving_ and _rightfully having_ had only managed to widen.

Their wayward pine never felt so far away. Alone together. Now, tonight, alone.

Cara’s bed was cold and empty. So was her body, heavy and weary on the scarlet bedcover, confused, wanting a reprieve or explanation. But there wasn’t one. There were only the impossibilities, carefully enumerated, ramming through her skull. There was only the sound of Kahlan gasping her name in that urgent, demanding tone that made her throb from her blood to her bones. There was only _I can’t_ , echoing back in both of their voices at once.

And swirling over Cara’s bed like a tempest was the infernal paradox that lived deep in her chest, sending its roots through the rest of her like some foreign body. Kahlan was not hers. That much was more perfectly apparent than ever. Somehow, though - somehow in that infernal, splintering world - Kahlan _still_ had her forever. Cara could feel it as easily as she could feel Kahlan’s grasp on her throat. Tethered. Held. Trapped there, shaking, straining to her limits.

As she lay steeping in her ripped-apart rage, Cara tried not to think of Shota. She tried not to think of _dark of hair and finest of face_ , or of how a fate existed in which Kahlan could become another entity that would haunt her in the end.

She made a few fitful attempts to close her eyes. Each time the darkness took over, Cara saw arrows sailing through the moonlight. None made any sort of satisfying purchase - there was no target for them to pierce in sight.

* * *

“Well, gentlemen, look who finally decided to join us this morning.”

Cara felt her mouth betray an involuntary flinch as she approached the huddle of officers, but she did not allow the reaction to heighten in intensity. Control. Emotions could be bitten back like bile rising in the throat. It was a painstaking but prideful and skillful endeavor, keeping one step ahead of the vehement knot twisting in the pit of her stomach. Until then, it had been an effortful success. She had to succeed, even though it felt like the stone was shifting under her boots each time she advanced.

And besides, Commander Baldwin’s teasing jibe did not deserve a response. At worst appraisal, it was mildly irritating and wholly exaggerated. Cara was not late. Cara was _never_ late. She was exactly on time. But _exactly on time_ was probably perceived by the rest as _late_ , as Cara was usually jogging her tenth or eleventh lap around the courtyard as the other officers began to languidly amble in to make arrangements for the day’s training. Each morning thus far had been a chance to relish in a certain sense of righteous superiority, smugly celebrating her own stamina, preparedness, and discipline in comparison to her compatriots.

This morning, though, had proven to be more of an infuriating struggle. A sleepless night rolled into a gutted, but numb, sunrise. Then absolute and agonizing indecision - a maddening tightness in her throat as her aching head hesitated between too many impossible choices. And while hesitancy was another verboten state of being, Cara had paced back and forth her bedchambers until the last possible second before making a choice. Continue the work, or stay hidden and fuming?

Her final choice had been to show up for the morning. This was part of culling the thoughts trying to overtake her core. Through the morning mist, Bradley Ryan’s tall form came into view across the way, assisting one of the younger boys with his chest plate. Their eyes met, and Bradley grinned a wordless greeting despite the flatness he had to be seeing reflected back. Offering the slightest nod in return, Cara called back her justification for being here. She would be useful, valuable. She would not be seen as fickle or unreliable to those who had grown to follow her for some forsaken reason. Her contracts and accords would be carried out. Even if…

She was suddenly too aware of the pin at her chest. It felt nearly leaden as it pulled her forward, somewhere between a march and a stumble. Kahlan’s handwriting flashed into her mind, and Cara had to fight against recalling the words themselves to keep her lungs from seizing.

And it didn’t help that Baldwin wasn’t letting go of the moronic joke.

“Hard time rising this morning, Mord-Sith?” The young officer had a handsome gray-eyed smirk, but Cara could only think of wiping it right from his face. With the back of her hand, and no ounce of delicacy. She shuddered through the urge as he went on with his casual, lighthearted teasing. “What a monumental day! Consider me surprised at this shocking turn of events. Almost as surprised as I am to see that you’re not even fully dressed. The braid is there, but where’s your armor? The leathers look incomplete without it.”

Cara’s jaw hardened, skin crawled as she thought of her corset and neckpiece - still in Kahlan’s solar, removed prior to the archery range and then left behind during her later hasty departure.

Baldwin’s grin widened at her continued silence. “In fact. Looking at your faraway, weary expression, I just might recognize it. It’s one I think we’ve all worn once or twice, am I wrong?” He gave another one of the commanders - Leiden - a friendly smack on the arm, accompanied by a wag of his eyebrows. “I’m left to wonder: did someone get the best of you last night, Cara? If so, I _believe_ you owe us the details.”

Banter was banter, but it was undoubtedly a step too far. The entirety of Cara’s perception flashed with vivid, furious red. The bile rose in her throat. This time, she spat it out.

“And _you_ , Baldwin.” Her voice became a weapon aimed straight at him as she drew closer. A calm glare masked the wild rage distilled into caustic, clipped words. “I can smell you from here. Nothing like the stench of a common brothel so early in the day. It’s clinging to your clothing. Paying your wife a visit while she brings home the coin? I hope she doesn’t charge you extra.”

It wasn’t even gratifying to watch his jaw fall off its hinges. She was just angry, _furious_ , feeling like her bones were about to forcibly eject from her skin. The heat collected on her face in the form of an indignant sneer as Baldwin, now also rightly incensed, squared up to her, chest out, eyes dark.

“A mouth on you this morning, too. It would be wise to shut it before you cause a commotion.”

The audacity of his foolish choice to advance on a Mord-Sith was almost humorous enough to make Cara forget that she was crumbling to pieces inside, despite her best attempts to keep herself together. She felt the other officers look on in quiet wariness as she puffed her own chest at him, angling her chin to hold and return (in double) his glower.

“I don’t cause commotions,” she growled in warning, all bared teeth, eyes narrow. “I _am_ one.”

Before the simmering tension could escalate further, Prince Fyren’s voice rang through the morning air, heralding his arrival with a stern rebuke. “Gentlemen!”

Cara would have bristled even more if it was physically possible. Instead, she let out half a snarl and shifted her gaze to Fyren. He approached with slow, deliberate strides, a straight back, and his hand on the pommel of his sword. Cara swallowed at the foulness threatening to spill from her.

“And Mord-Sith.” The addition was decidedly not an apologetic one. Fyren’s upper lip was stiff as he glared at the two of them. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Head Commander,” Baldwin grumbled, probably appreciating the chance to yield from Cara’s hostile challenge. He took a predictable step back and let his shoulders go slack for barely a second before standing at attention. Cara did not follow suit. Fists clenching even harder, making the tendons in her wrists tighter until they burned, she let her gaze fall to her boots, hating the feeling of being scolded like a misbehaving dog. Hating most of the gritty feelings creeping through her gut. “We were just discussing our evenings. Right, Cara?”

 _Mistress Cara_ , she wanted to bark. But the correction probably would have been punctuated with a fist, and though a solid punch might have offered the slightest satisfaction, it certainly would lend itself to more issues caused than solved. And all these second thoughts and self-control felt wrong. Cara’s voice was gravelly as she spoke, choosing not to meet a single gaze.

“Yes. Just talking.”

Nothing about it sounded like it had come from her own mouth. Weak. Capitulating. Brought low despite the turmoil under the surface. None of it made sense.

“Good.” Fyren nodded with a thin, unconvinced frown before tossing a glance over his shoulder to the crowd of sleepy-eyed boys growing nearby. “I don’t tolerate bickering among my recruits, let alone my officers. It would be a shameful and embarrassing example to show. I’m sure you agree.”

The veiled admonishment was met with a _yes_ , _Head Commander_ from one and an inarticulate, vaguely-affirmative grunt from the other.

Fyren, however, wasn’t finished with the latter.

“A word, Mord-Sith.”

Cara let out a huff and spoke her reluctant contrition unprompted, though each word felt like a knife in her windpipe. Just more conceding. So weak. She had been made weak. _Kahlan_ had made her weak. _I can’t_. “I apologize for my tardiness. It won’t happen again.” Anything to appease the bastard and get on with this toilsome day.

But Fyren simply looked confused by her words. He stroked along his clean jawline with his thumb and forefinger, squinting. “The apology is unnecessary. You are not late.” Just a repetition of what Cara already knew. “In truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if you were. I was going to say that your squad will be beginning the day alongside mine, under my watch. I just finished speaking with one of the couriers. You’ve been granted dispensation for the morning - the Mother Confessor has requested your presence in her chambers, without delay.”

With that, everything seemed to stop. There was no way for Cara to form any sort of answer through the dread that flooded her veins, mingling with the stinging rage. It felt like ice but her face was hot, boiling. This was not control. This was pure spineless nausea in response to a finger in a fresh wound; it was dumb shock reacting with seething anger. This should not have been blindsiding. Kahlan asking for her should not have filled her with dismay.

And yet.

“Oh, _has_ she?” The piercing vitriol escaped unchecked, but Cara was too submerged in the breakdown of all things, wild-eyed in the face of fresh pain cutting close again. Fyren reeled, the officers reeled, the recruits within earshot reeled. Cara did not reel, instead placing her hands on her hips and lunging closer to the Head Commander. “Where’s the courier now? Because he can tell the Mother Confessor that I-”

Something brought her harsh declaration to a shuddering halt. Bradley Ryan was watching her, intent and silent, confused but awaiting. Cara felt his gaze and flickered to meet it, and he did not flinch from her. Scrawny little Otto, who had begun to copy every one of Bradley’s actions, was looking on too. All of them were, each young man in her squad. They were observing, thinking, comparing, learning. Growing. With her as a model. And it was utterly ridiculous and infuriating and almost-invasive and Cara couldn’t continue her words. Not with their eyes on her. Another tether rooting her into these ever-shrinking circles of freedom.

The words that came out instead of the ones she intended were quiet, spoken through gritted teeth after a steadying swallow. In full view of all gathered, she resigned herself to her own dismantling.

What other choice did she have? The paradox howled back in. Had and having, forever. It rippled through her backbone.

“I plan to return quickly.” She found enough bearing to give a slight inclination of her chin at her squad members. “Don’t be easy on them, Fyren. I hope they don’t embarrass me.”

The late summer morning felt colder as Cara turned on her heel, pulse echoing in her skull, and started on her way to the Confessors’ Palace. Autumn was beginning to feel much closer. The equinox was on its way. But that hardly registered, when everything else felt much farther away. Her legs were numb, her nerves were split, and she had no way to describe her heart. Just another shortcoming to add to the list - another indication of everything she apparently wasn’t.

Bradley called after her, cheerful of voice, clueless of everything. “See you this afternoon, Mistress Cara! Expect us to train ten times harder in your absence. I’ll see to it.”

Cara should have looked back, or thrown him some retort. But she didn’t. She was too busy considering the point at which _broken_ could become _shattered_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Hit me up on tumblr or Twitter if you wanna yell at me to keep writing and hear me talk about nonsense.


	17. never give you peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Here with another chapter - not the full update I was hoping for, for a couple reasons. One, because these two once again proved how much they LOVE to talk at each other. Two, this chapter took me a moment to get through because...hmm, there's a lot of myself in it? And I hope that fact elevates it rather than obfuscates it. I sound like a broken record but I am, once again, promising that favorable ending...it's the journey, though, along with the destination. Right?
> 
> ~~and I am ALSO once again apologizing to all the Sad Sapphics out there for the _folklore_ chapter title~~
> 
> listen: ["peace" - Taylor Swift](https://open.spotify.com/track/6rTUr8OpU5kcSqLGL2TmyR?si=hznuTHFMRkCLqCFc6yXpmA)

The coarse and hollow brutality of Kahlan’s necessary intentions came thrashing back in a faraway echo of Cara’s voice.

(Cara’s voice, in her head with near constancy for hours. _I need you to touch me_ with a flickered twist into _you’re all I want, and I can’t_. And every bit of the wounded, rapid shift between the two disparate utterances: Kahlan’s fault, entirely. Another weight to shoulder. Her eyes ached.)

Despite every shred of colossal and strenuous effort Kahlan had drawn down, the previous night’s happening had been absolute in its inevitability. The mutual sheer loss of control had been threatening the space between their bodies for too long, thrumming low and then amplifying in galvanic flashes of wayward touch, throttling their skin and tiny bases of sensation, stretching everything thin before bursting forth. But for all of its slow, ensnaring escalation, the true and substantial manifestation came in a whirl of sudden stars, like everything all at once and nothing altogether. They had gotten so close ( _too_ close) that they ended up passing through one another entirely. Like a swift and intent cut with a well-whetted blade - so violent in its quickness that the blow was unnoticeable until it had already been landed and the weapon pulled back into oblivion. Only first perceived in the blood and the shock of bewildered pain dealt in its wake. 

A wound. 

The reckoning of their wildness ( _Kahlan’s_ selfish, self-serving wildness) was a wound, fresh and livid. Brought on by that same perilous lapse in judgement Kahlan had been foolish enough to let herself be taken by once already. Her body ached for what it had been long denied, all fire and desperate intensity. Her heart wanted too much that could never strike into fruition, here, despite any of the contrary hopes that had whispered their way in since she crossed the boundary into Westland with the Book of Counted Shadows. No. Her body and what flowed through it, sinking into all of it with fearful ubiquity, was sinister. Her heart was to be given fully to duty, to truth, to perpetuation of the past millennia. She was made for fear and made of fear. Far from the calm and certain safety she felt in Cara’s meaningful presence, in Cara’s strong arms. Far from how Cara had managed to make her forget this, even if only for transient, crumbling moments.

Because in the face of every shallow and unavoidable thing, love was still something to fear. 

(Last night was fear. Mostly in the thought of it never being lived again. Kahlan breathed, maybe less deeply than she had hoped to.)

Cara’s voice, then, coming through loud from Kahlan’s memory in the utter silence of her solar. 

_“We need to burn the wound closed.”_

This was probably a mistake, Kahlan recognized: summoning Cara so soon after the casualty. But what was one more mistake carved out in the torrent which had been pouring from Kahlan’s plans? Insignificant, when laid out with the lot. And if that fantastic but disastrous moment of union between them had ended in some strange wound, Cara’s advice had merit. A new wound passed over in avoidance would fester, leaving sickness and infection to radiate through all the rest. 

This decisive sort of dealing with it would be agonizing in the approaching minutes, but sanctuary in every moment that spiraled along after. A mercy. For the best. For whose best, for what best? For that dutiful space which Kahlan was constantly failing to inhabit. 

Her fingers, unruly in the shadow of her meandering thoughts, brushed against the outside of her right thigh, passing over gleaming white silk and the now-familiar scar from Cara’s Agiel. The throes that purged her of the polluted blood, of the wracking shivers and nausea, and the woozy feeling that each leaden step was driven less and less by her own strength, was unforgettable. Those ten seconds of blinding pain had saved her. 

And now, though relegated to phantoms, it came roaring back, from the skin to the spine to the skull. Kahlan tried against everything to banish the memory of how Cara’s eyes had been locked with hers - that night so long ago, the previous night in her bed, and any of the other instances of connection altogether. She tried against everything to not acknowledge how that first promised pain had broken her heart for the Mord-Sith, long before Kahlan realized Cara had a place (a _home_ ) within it.

Maybe this coming hurt would purge Kahlan of the delusion in which she had been allowing herself to drown for nearly the past year. Those absurd notions of finding some semblance of normalcy with Richard, with Cara, with _anyone_ , only resulted in heartache. In spite of everything she had been taught since she was small, her capacity to think pragmatically about her duty had diminished. She had been thinking too little, expecting too much. Brooding on what could be if things were different, and imagining unburdening herself of what has always been.

And brooding led to undermining of the self - an inability to leave the past and future both where they lay. Kahlan had been doing nothing but undermining herself for so long. 

Passion rules reason, Alferon had said. For better or for worse. This was the latter. And passion couldn’t reign. Not here. Not with tempests and bloodthirsty militant factions and Seekers and missing swords, nor with criminals and councils and mates and unborn daughters. The wizards were wise and powerful, but they were not Confessors. Kahlan couldn’t allow passion to take control. 

The hardest measure was often the necessary measure. Kahlan felt the narrow precipice under her feet and willed herself to not step back, no matter how it hurt. A first step forward redirection had to follow. Don’t hesitate. It was good advice.

A single, reverberative knock came as an impatient underscore to the imperative. Kahlan realized she had been standing, and had no idea for how long.

“Enter.” 

Her voice was quiet, but did not waver. Her face had inadvertently slipped into the detached mask of a true Confessor - composed and possessed in spite of all the stirring underneath. With a rush of shame, Kahlan softened her expression, hating that she had almost greeted Cara with that cold of a visage.

The guard Mikhail had inched his way into Kahlan’s chambers and was standing at attention, but atypical uneasiness had edged in on his usual stoicism. A twofold wondering crashed over Kahlan. First, she wondered how much the previous evening’s guard might have deduced, and how the experience could have been disclosed. Then, immediately and with regretful dread, she wondered what sort of state Cara was in on the other side of the door.

Mikhail cleared his throat, unused to actually announcing Cara’s presence after all this time. She was usually just _there_.

“Your Mord-Sith, here at your call.”

The words stung. (He didn’t use her name.)

Kahlan nodded, suddenly not trusting her voice. 

But she was going to have to use it soon. Because while Mikhail retreated, Cara took his place across the threshold, but no further. Her footsteps on the marble were far too impersonal and bleak a herald for her presence. No matter the preparation, her arrival caused everything inside of Kahlan to topple into a sudden roil.

They were standing so far apart. And every point of distance between them struck Kahlan as senseless and ridiculous after the way their bodies had melded in defiant desire, grasping and pressing and writhing and daring. Before that, even, all of the time sleeping close together, the fleeting moments of fingers entwining, every embrace with foreheads touching just for an instant. Their bodies seemed to comprehend this odd separation. Their bodies seemed to know one another. In actuality, they were treacherous antitheses. Kahlan had spent the last sleepless night resenting her own, more than she had in her twenty-eight years.

It was hard not to react to the dislocation. The space between them twinged with the wound’s shadow.

Cara wasn’t avoiding her gaze. Kahlan wasn’t avoiding Cara’s. While their bodies reeled in the silence, their shared intent look remained steady. Cara’s eyes were tense, narrowed, eyebrows notched, and this time the perpetual question residing within them was obvious. It was impossible to disregard what was looming there. Kahlan didn’t need to be able to read Cara’s thoughts to know what that piercing look or those pursed lips meant. Hurt confusion, angered slight. The want to ask _why_ and the want to not be standing in this room existing at once as opposites. All of these blazed into and projected back through Kahlan’s fragile disposition, making her throat throb with bitterness at the damage she had already caused. 

That was not one of the impossible outcomes which Kahlan longed for. Far from it.

But even through this awkward and delicate discontent, or with her own guilt, Kahlan couldn’t push away any of the craving she _was_ harboring. Seeing Cara made Kahlan want her. All the time, even now. To close the gap, to pull her in, to rest her cheek on one of those strong shoulders and just breathe in the dizzy scent of cedarwood, leather, and clean skin, the scent she had half-memorized by now. Just to breathe _Cara_ in and feel her center giving out in that glorious way and to feel assured, feel more than she was, feel something other than hopeless.

Cara was still staring. The furrow in her brow had grown deeper. The emptiness between them shuddered. Kahlan’s hands pulsed with the urge to reach. She clasped them in front of her ribs instead. Cara’s were at her side, balled into fists.

The resolve for this swift execution was dwindling rapidly. So it was a blessing that Cara spoke first.

“You called for me.” 

The statement was simple and direct, and it did not come together into a curious inquiry. Her tone was dripping with cold and reticent indignation. Kahlan opened her mouth to reply, but felt all of the brave lines she had prepared fall away, scattering into the corners of the room, as far away from them as possible.

The ones that came out in their stead were quick, unplanned, and hesitant.

“Cara.” Kahlan winced at the way her mouth formed the syllables of her name so eagerly, so doubtlessly. “How...how are you? Are you-”

An embittered scoff halted the foolish question . “Just great, Mother Confessor. Rarely better, in fact.” The thinly-veiled acrimony caused Cara’s eyes to flare. “A little confused, I’ll admit. I’m wondering why I’ve been pulled away from my responsibilities. What could you possibly have left to tell me after all you said last night?”

Kahlan balked, but only in a small way. This response was expected, even if actually observing it brought pure dismay. “I’m so sorry.”

“I seem to remember that being in the details.”

“It’s worth saying again. I’ll say it over and over, if I have the chance to.” Kahlan had done so much wrong. “That’s why I summoned you here. I didn’t wait to wait too long to discuss-”

“The summons were unnecessary. What is there to discuss?” Cara shrugged, eyes rolling with the typical unaffected nonchalance, but her fists shook with an extra bit of clenching. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear.”

“I actually don’t think I have, Cara,” Kahlan asserted just above a whisper, taking a single step forward. Cara somehow managed to wind herself even tighter at the tiny change in proximity. “I wanted every bit of what happened between us last night. You must know that. I need you to. I wanted _more_. And when I was touching you…” Kahlan shut her eyes and shivered at the reference to her reckless hand’s trembling deeds. “Spirits, Cara, when I was touching you, I didn’t want to stop.”

“But you did.” Cara’s comment matched Kahlan’s hushed tone, glancing away for the first time and for just a brief moment. When her eyes returned to Kahlan’s, they were inscrutable aside from the smallest glint of heaviness reflected by the morning light pouring into the room. “Everything was fine and then you pulled away.”

“Because I had to. And I hate every single fragment of that necessity. Please, you have to believe me.” And it would be such a relief to this tension if Kahlan could just caress Cara’s forearm, or hip, or the small of her back, to communicate this steady truth. But it was impossible for the problem to also be the cure. Kahlan’s hands burned with cruel restraint. She kept them contained. “What I let myself do was _so_ dangerous. I could kill you, Cara. You know that. If I lose control, I'd be responsible for your life's end. And that’s an outcome I can’t even bear to think about.”

Cara’s voice grew quieter, but kept its edge. “I’m not afraid of that. Or of you.” Her upper lip flinched and Kahlan saw her shoulders stiffen, but none of the veiled thoughts that churned under the gesture. “You never touch me unless you’re in control. And I trust…” Her throat rasped around the word and she bristled before her voice became even smaller. “I trust you.”

The outpouring of reluctant honesty made the air in Kahlan’s solar feel thin and scarce, like a tomb for the both of them. Kahlan, compelled by the too-familiar sensation, drew in a shaking breath and cast out her own fearful truth on the exhale.

“I don’t trust myself.”

But Cara’s particular and unmistakable stubbornness made another hack at Kahlan’s backbone. 

“I told you I could accept all of the time you needed. All of the space. And I have, over and over again,” she said with wisping frustration and sharpening eyes. “I haven’t coerced or pressured you. All of this has followed your intention.”

That was precisely the problem. Kahlan’s intentions were purely incongruous. Trying to force what she wanted and what was required of her into harmony had her cornered on the fringes of control. And Cara’s eyes burning into her were only heightening the feeling of having every shred of her under scrutiny. 

“I know that.” The reminder of her own folly wasn’t necessary after it had already been so long-dwelled. “I’ve meant everything I’ve said.”

Especially not wanting her selfish chaos to hurt Cara. There was plenty of it, wrapped in a shroud of unfamiliarity - the deep, compelling, and confusing feelings for someone apart from Richard, for a woman, for a Mord-Sith, for _Cara_. Cara had been dragged along in all of it. _She_ had dragged Cara along, causing harm in her terrible attempts to avoid harm. And right now, Cara’s body language said _bruised_. Not her normal loose brazenness, gracefully sweeping limbs and cocked eyebrow and smirk. No. Standing before Kahlan, drawn in on herself just enough for Kahlan to notice: shoulders rolled forward, chin tucked, jaw taut, eyes entirely distant. Looking provoked, looking scorned, looking so small and wild and ready to come asunder, all at once. But still, through it all, exuding eerie calm reticence. Cara was a whirlwind and a paradox, and she was singularly entrancing, and Kahlan was captivated. (She couldn’t allow herself to be.)

“You meant it,” Cara murmured in repeat, reserved but also blistered, caught somewhere between a haughty display of disbelief and a timid appeal for reassurance. 

“I did.” Creator above, if Kahlan couldn’t change this, if she couldn’t take any of this back, she had to at least make Cara see. Cara knew duty and all of its unrelenting trappings. She had to understand. “But being here-” (being _here with Cara_ was the only thing making being _here_ tolerable, the only measure of effortless peace, the only glimpse of true home) “-being here has made me realize that what we’re doing is clearly impossible. No matter how simple it seems or consuming it is. Before this gets away from us, we have to bury it.” 

Because there was already destruction. Burn the wound closed. Stomp out the smolder and gasp against the smoke. Words repeated, history repeating: Richard in the moonlight, his body battered and abused, listening with sad tolerance to Kahlan’s ingrained enumeration of mission, duty, destruction, impossibility. 

That same flash of melancholy she remembered in Richard’s eyes was reflected in Cara’s, now. But while Richard had shaped his reaction into a sad smile, Cara’s withered into rigid sullenness. And it hit Kahlan with sudden, staggering force that _this_ wasn’t like Cara. But that was because Cara was allowing her to see it, letting the hurt slip through, whether willingly or unwillingly. 

Cara opened her mouth to respond, only to close it again after bringing in half a breath. Kahlan rushed to fill in the lip-bitten, weighty silence, with the high hopes that throwing more words out would be a cause for mend. 

But before she could, Cara found her own. Unexpected. Pinched, but precise. 

“Would you be saying the same thing to Richard, if he was standing where I am?”

The question took Kahlan’s air. So did Cara’s gaze as it bore into her. The name, exhumed and spoken aloud, seared through both of them at the same time. The miserable truth rattled through with it.

“Yes,” Kahlan whispered in reply, not trusting her full voice. She would be saying it to him. She _had_ said it to him and then she absconded from it, from her duty. And now this was the price of her past faltering, for letting those integral defenses fall. “No matter what, no matter who, it’s impossible. And it’s unfair. It can’t be fair for both of us, at least. But Cara, if any of this can only be fair to one of us, I want it to be fair for you.”

More silence. Cara stared, betraying not an ounce more of the underneath. Kahlan swallowed at a thick throat. This time, without the fortitude to be silent or an excuse to turn away, Kahlan had to challenge the quiet.

“Sometimes I think you’re the only person who really listens, or who understands, or who is taking these warnings of danger truly seriously. For that, I need you here with me. I recognize that you need to carry out your promise to Richard. Aydindril is your home now. You belong here.”

The nod Kahlan gave was meant to be one of firm assurance, but felt weak in the hold of Cara’s probing look. Clearing her throat and gathering her courage against the prickling in her eyes, she forced herself to go on.

“But, Cara. I look at you standing there and my heart breaks, because you deserve the very best.” This was the moment of rending. Tear apart to reform, in the proper way. “You deserve _so_ much more than I can give you.” 

Speaking the forlorn truth that had been seething for so long in her mind, in her chest, somehow made it even realer. Its plaintive chiming, finally in her own voice, were relief and devastation all at once. Lightened, fleetingly, before everything came crashing back. Before she was forced to witness Cara’s confused reaction. Cara _had_ to see the reality in this.

“What do I _deserve?_ ” she demanded, hands on her hips, taking one tentative yet explicit step closer. Kahlan needed that decrease in distance, and then more, the same way she needed so many impossible things.

“Happiness.” Kahlan nearly shuddered with the effort of pressing on. “Happiness and true fulfillment, in ways which I can neither find for myself nor provide for someone else. And if only one of us can be happy here, _spirits_ , Cara, I want it to be you.” Hurt before healing. It _hurt_. So long, just them, now ruptured. This was so difficult, but she also felt entirely a coward. Too much and not enough, at once. “There’s no telling what Shota’s promised future holds, but for now, you can start to make a life here. You can continue your incredible work with the recruits and being one of my trusted advisors and defenders. And if there’s something beyond, you will be brought on as a member of the palace guard. You’ll be paid handsomely and can find a companion who can give you the contentment I can’t. You can be happy and at peace.”

The words rang and lingered; the wound pulsated and then hemorrhaged. 

Cara’s eyes ignited like awakening through haze - wild and clear, incisive and raw. Beautiful. Beautiful enough to be agonizing. Kahlan wanted. Their sudden intensity and departure from guarded taciturnity could have rocked her back onto her heels.

“ _Stop_.” Part-hiss, part-snarl, forced through clenched teeth. “I’ve already told you. I thought you listened. _I_ decide what I can and can’t sustain.” With one hand on her hip, Cara pointed stiffly at herself with the other, gloved finger straight at her chest. “Don’t you dare try to determine that for me. What I can’t endure is the thought of being without…”

Her disclosure trailed off, flailing down into gestures of hardly-stifled agitation - the baring of teeth, the heel of one palm pressed to a temple, eyes squinting and then squeezing shut altogether. When they reopened Kahlan could see what rippled behind them; not as a Confessor, but as enraptured, as consumed in disallowed intent, as human, as just _woman_ , so very connected to the other standing too far from her. Kahlan watched in near-awe as the vulnerable but true thoughts yanked themselves from the white-knuckled grip of Cara’s resistance and dripped into words, spoken in a way that was both measured with practice and wavering, just around the edges, with the dilemma of spontaneity.

(Kahlan hated that the feeling of being so weightless only came in these forbidden instants.) 

“We still live in a hard world,” Cara breathed, a renewal in quick assertion, letting go of so much more than Kahlan knew was easy for her. “And I mean what I said, too. I want you. In ways that make me feel so infuriating weak. I’ve wanted you for longer than I’ve known it, and longer than I’ve defied even to consider saying it. You keep saying Aydindril is my home.” Another scoff, louder than the first, but reactionary, unsteady. “You’re wrong. The constant weight and ache of wanting you is what feels like home.” 

And even though she shook around the half-bitten syllables, Cara lifted her chin to regard Kahlan with clear expectation.

An expectation Kahlan couldn’t rise to meet.

“Cara.” Her voice, too, refused to rise above an afflicted hush. “The Galean officer I confessed? At the council meeting yesterday, he nearly became the father of the next Confessor. _My daughter_. While it’s a miracle that he isn’t, I can’t resist taking a mate forever. _That_ is what I’m resigned to. My avoidance is being noticed and my fidelity is being called into question. Somehow, they know. They know about all that’s forming between us. It’s only a matter of time until it’s used against me.”

“But why does that even matter, Kahlan? What is it that _you_ choose?” Cara asked through her gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Kahlan asserted. She had only been fooling herself to think that even the semblance of one existed. “You understand that. You know it, too, the fate of being tethered to something out of your control, to something you never willed. To duty, beyond your own volition.”

Cara gave her head a vehement shake, sending her braid whipping behind her. “No. You’re not answering my question.” Their eyes locked again. Cara’s were glistening. “I’m not asking about duty, or what you feel you have to do for everyone else. You told me that I take in what I give freely of yourself, not what I’m bound by force to give. That I’m worth more than I give to others. I’ve been _trying_ to see that. So I’m asking you…” Here her voice cracked, and Cara cringed at the rare loss of composure before she gathered enough of its crippled remnants to continue. Her voice, though, remained quiet, a shy trace of itself. “What do you _want_ , Kahlan?”

Cara’s reiteration of Kahlan’s words should have permeated Kahlan’s heart. Should have cleared her vision. Should have made Kahlan want to obliterate everything besides the latch uniting them, to exile everything but _them_ and to weave them into that blissful ceaselessness once more, and for good. 

But instead, and unexpectedly, Kahlan reacted with a flash of blind and unrefined anger.

There was so _much_ she wanted.

“I want to not be slowly and spectacularly failing.” Her tone was bitter on her own tongue, and the taste of vitriol drove her to spit out every last greedy longing. “I want an end to the persistent scrutiny. I want to be more than a pressured weapon of justice. I want to not fear the childbed or the burden I’ll pass to my daughter before the cord is even cut. I want what I say to be heard and heeded and respected, not passed over with an appeasing glance. I want to not be at the center of every calamity, lost in the dark.” It was odd to notice in that exact moment that Cara’s gaze was bloodshot. Kahlan knew she reflected that weariness, too. In her eyes, in her head, in her shoulders. She was tired. She was so tired and drenched with trouble and every bit of it was pouring out faster than she could breathe. Soon she would be empty. Emptiness would be a mercy. “I want to find strength in my convictions. I want to not be confused and distracted by everything I want, all the time. To not feel so torn between these contrasting and irreconcilable parts of me. I want to be more than I was born for. I want to be more than I am. I want to make sense to myself. Cara, I want to be enough for everyone.” 

With a deep, heaving breath, Kahlan caught the scent of cedarwood, and whether it was real or simply wishful imagining, it was overwhelming, an utter headrush. Cara’s low voice in her ear, Cara’s skin against hers, Cara’s true and rare smile marking her heartbeat, cascading through her blood. She wanted Cara. She wanted Cara to understand. She wondered if the silence meant understanding. 

“But I’m not,” she gasped on the ragged exhale, not waiting for an affirmation. “I can’t be. And holding the weight of trying to be enough for everyone renders me not enough for anyone. I’m hardly enough for myself. There’s no choice. I can’t give you what you’re asking for. I don’t have the luxury of love. I have a clear and distinct duty: to be a protector of the Midlands and to continue the line of Confessors. And I must uphold it.”

The Mother Confessor’s edict ricocheted through the room with finality.

Cara recoiled from its stunning, sharp-edged reverberations. Kahlan watched her and thought of the way a person looked the instant her power raged into them, taking and taking and taking. 

And too late, Kahlan realized the damning word she had allowed to slip through.

It had not gone unheard.

 _Love_. The word intrinsic, the word unpretending, the word fearful. The word like an obvious bloodstain, unable to leave in disregard. Concise, fragile, but making their private world stumble with its impact. Again and helplessly, Kahlan was divided in her intentions. Part of her wanted to seize the word up and hasten it back into her own shadows, to spare them of this. The other wanted to leave it in the air, suspended in the too-bright morning sun blazing in through the grand windows - to let it ring out over and over without an end, to allow it to burgeon and fill the room and fill them, etching the walls and their bodies and leaving every possible sign of its existence. Kahlan’s pulse raced from her chest to her head to her wrists and she couldn’t decide. There _was_ nothing to decide.

More quickly than Kahlan hoped, Cara reclaimed her bearings from the dazed sway, and the look of her features wrenched at Kahlan’s gut. 

Her face was usually a remarkable and constant font of expression both subtle and unabashed, taking Kahlan’s breath with the way it conveyed the deepest parts of her. Now, it showed absolutely nothing. Eyes void of that glinting anger or exasperation or brooding. Lips left uncurled, mouth unturned, brow uncreased. Everything blank. Soulless. Detached. For once, her face was just as inscrutable to Kahlan as her thoughts. 

It was nearly the face of a faraway stranger. And it brought back the shame of forever ago. The raising of a lethal hand and a vindictive declaration: _I’ll get the truth out of her_. The first careless fallacy, swelling and drifting from the past into the now.

Cara’s voice matched her expression’s barrenness. 

“What did you just say?”

Inflection gone. Quiet and even, each word given the same emphasis and timbre. It was barely a question. There was truly no wondering about what Kahlan had said. And still she peered with those stony eyes, waiting for an answer to the non-question. Waiting for cold accountability. Waiting for a finishing blow. Kahlan blinked twice, willing away the burning and the way her vision of Cara had begun to swim.

“You heard me. I can’t pretend,” she stammered, again at a loss, brimming with helplessness like in everything else. “Cara, I don’t know what else to-”

Cara turned on her heel so quickly that the motion took Kahlan’s speech with it.

“Then say nothing.” She spoke to the floor, away from Kahlan. But through the action, her shoulders visibly tightened. “Give your orders and be done. I’ll carry them out as I’ve committed myself to doing. But after you do, do _not_ drag me away from them to bring me here again.” Then, slowly, the bite circled in with a vengeance. Acerbity steeped through her articulation of every letter. “The Mother Confessor mustn’t be rendered _confused._ What would the good people of the Midlands think?” She shook her head, brought back the clenched fists, controlled-but-barely. “No room for unworthy distractions, like my presence.”

It hurt. It was meant to hurt - that was Kahlan’s reluctant aim all along. It was excruciating. Kahlan thought of that night again, injured after wielding the Sword of Truth. The night air chilling the sweat on her already-fevered skin, the torrential shivers, the sick throbbing in her belly. She thought of the screaming pressure of Cara’s Agiel against her leg and wished for it instead. But through the distress, there was still the persistent impulse to deny her intent, to comfort and amend. To collapse into Cara and draw out whatever possible measure of that new tenderness she hadn’t managed to ruin.

But Cara had turned away, and the distance between them was too great. 

The release of that directionless compulsion came through Kahlan’s mouth instead, hurried and desperate.

“Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so…”

“ _Please_ ,” Cara interrupted, body jerking with the emphatic force of speaking. Her tone matched anything but the word’s implication. “Don’t finish that sentence.” A sharp sigh, laden with unwilling resignation - a sound of concession so upsettingly foreign to Kahlan’s ears. “Have my armor sent to my chambers.”

Four exacting steps away from Kahlan echoed off of the marble floor before Cara stopped. Pivoted, maybe a quarter of the way, chin creeping over her shoulder, just enough for Kahlan to see a viridian iris slip to the corner of her eye. The almost-look hitched Kahlan’s breath. 

“I served Richard like any Mord-Sith should.” Gruff, rumbling low. “I felt the bond. But before I served him, I chose him. You said it yourself, in your note to me.” Kahlan thrummed with the remembering. “And you were right. I’m still choosing him, every day, even as we speak. Both the shadow of the bond and my own continued choice carry me now. I’ve made other choices, too - maybe foolish ones.” A pause. Cara squinted, as though debating whether or not to go on. “You expect your word to just be _accepted_ when it’s full of contradictions and cant. You say you don’t have a choice? Claiming that _is_ making a choice, Kahlan. You’ve chosen this, in absolute. Don’t pretend you haven’t. It’s an insult to both of us. Stop saying you’re failing when you’re doing exactly what you mean to.”

Silence, then, settling in with acute heaviness. No more scoffing or sighing. No final mournful bids for understanding. Even Cara’s boots made no sound on the marble as they carried her farther away. The brittle space between them stretched and strained until there was so much of it that Kahlan had no idea how to fill it in. Her mouth tasted desolate, dry; too full of shame to protest. 

And in a blink, Cara was gone without ceremony or flourish. Like she hadn’t been there in the first place. But she had been - she was etched all over Kahlan’s hands, Kahlan’s bedsheets, Kahlan’s heart. (Kahlan’s heart was in her throat.)

Half a year ago, the pain of purging had brought about oblivion, with the dark forest clearing tilting and swirling as Kahlan pitched sideways into unconsciousness. When she had come around hours later, lured back by the crackle of tinder (after her fainting, apparently, there was plenty of time to make a fire) and the trilling of insects, she had been sprawled on her carefully-arranged bedroll. Her leg was sore and tender like a deep bruise, but the fever was gone. Cara had been sitting on the other side of the fire, deliberately-not-watching Kahlan; her focus fluttered back to the embers as soon as Kahlan’s bleary eyes crossed it. And Kahlan should have swallowed her stupid pride and thanked Cara that night, out loud and with firmness, instead of keeping the gratitude to herself until now, when saying it was meaningless.

Kahlan had expected the same resultant emptiness with this purge - but it was absent.

To the contrary, she felt overfull and overflowing, lead-chested, sinking slowly at gravity’s demand. Everything hovered and encroached and bore down: Richard, the Sword of Truth, _The Seventh Codex of Sandragon_ and its promise of Chimes that would take magic and the shrouded Blood of the Fold who could seek to harness them. Her fate of the childbed, bereft of that connection which made her feel more than she was. Cara’s fingers tangling with hers. Cara throwing her words back at her and refusing to understand. Cara turning her back, showing both compelling passion and its utter lack at once. Passion couldn’t rule reason. There was no amount of reason to heed.

Stomping out a fire’s weary bones like this only created more smoke.

But somehow, through its acrid clouds, there came an instant of nearly farcical lucidity. Time stood, conflicting with itself. Kahlan thought of the scrap of paper still on her writing desk, of her foreboding quill marks scrawled across it. She pictured them and, with cold blood, heard Shota’s voice, saw her furs and her arrogant smile through the haze.

 _Pain in duty and duty in pain_. 

A harbinger of peril, rearing its cruel head while the ignorant sun shone outside the palace walls. Insult added to injury. 

Kahlan found her own hands forming into tight fists.

(This was pain, in all its forms, stealing any hope of peace.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you all have to think! Come find me on Twitter or tumblr to see what an entire mess I am.


	18. Leave Me Out With the Waste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Back with another one, longer than the chapters have been in a while. I genuinely hope you enjoy and that you aren't ready to run away by the end - as repeatedly promised, most of this is just a blip.
> 
> One more quick note I'd like to make: yes, absolutely, a solution to at least 75% of Cara and Kahlan's predicament is clear. But in case it's not obvious, I'm choosing to work within show!Kahlan's convictions, i.e., seeming pretty darn adamant that she wouldn't marry/be with Richard once she returned to Aydindril. Okay. Sweet. I feel better about my decisions now that I've laid that out explicitly. _Onward!_
> 
> listen: ["9 Crimes" - Damien Rice](https://open.spotify.com/track/08YEGpKt2LHJ0URCXKHEie)

It was a manifold bit of consolation that Mikhail tended to avoid asking questions, both in words or by bearing. A mind more inclined to interest certainly would have reacted with less detachment at Kahlan’s state as she bid him enter for the second time that morning: ashen-faced with the dried tracks from silent tears striping her cheeks, clutching a small scrap of parchment while an ever-growing stack of petitions in need of her designation lay in disregard on the writing desk. His knock had barely registered through the numb fog billowing in her head; Kahlan had responded to it out of quick habit alone, her own clipped voice feeling like a dismal ghost of something else as it croaked from her throat.

Maybe a fraction of her mind noticed the strangeness of in him heralding yet another arrival that forenoon. But its better weight was fixed on the scrawled reminder held in incredulous fingers, poured all over the inked lines and curves of her own handwriting, nervously-marked and nervously-regarded. Trying, through an aching, preoccupied fog, to elucidate some further meaning from the words left mired in obscurity, after the realization that crashed over her as Cara had departed without a single final glance.

_Pain in duty. Duty in pain._

So close, too close, words bursting into salience, striking at her awareness as the equinox lurked weeks away. But the rest of Shota’s fragmented warnings still seemed to be scattered in ambiguous nonsense. The incongruent nature of their vague specificity - triplicate divides, burgundy flowers, jagged whites and burning flesh - was frustration manifest, lacing its way through the chilled dismay of only knowing in part. Let alone somehow weaving the piecemeal offerings into the prophecy in the _Seventh Codex of Sandragon_. It made her mind feel like wool.

This was the world off its kilter, rocked askew by the confusion that had set in since having to carry on without Richard. The confusion passed through generations - of sitting in the First Chair of Aydindril to rule and to accommodate with no guide besides old conventionality. The confusion that had gripped her since Cara’s hands had laid claim to her vulnerable but so-minded body.

Pure disbalance, in every way, teetering on the razor-edge between _should have been_ and _can never be_. And Kahlan, sapped of resolve, having to hold herself upright in the exact center.

Shota had referenced disbalance, too, coloring the delicate space between the living realm and the Underworld. This observation, with unsurprising annoyance, didn’t correspond with any of the rest. The Blood of the Fold - likely (maybe...somewhat possibly) Sandragon’s predicted enemy - also stood in opposition of the Keeper, to a zealous degree, claiming that all magic in this world was born of his influence. Wouldn’t releasing the Chimes from their internment in the Underworld further disrupt this balance? There were too many disparate strands in the web, crossing only at inconsequential and transitory points. The attempt to reconcile them was enough to send Kahlan further into spinning nausea as she whipped between feeling vindicated and feeling still so completely lost.

Time itself felt ripped from its mooring. Each of its beats was strange and drifting. Kahlan had no hint of how much had passed since Cara left, besides the sunlight shining through the windows and taunting her with its heedless bright audacity. The luminous patterns on the marble hadn’t moved much. It couldn’t have been long. But it felt like eternity stretching on and beyond, dragging Kahlan through the forsaken remains.

The sun’s glare and the discordance of time made Kahlan think of the Valley of Perdition. And she wondered if she had somehow staggered her way there and was now trapped in its living nightmare. Crawling through desert sand, desperately chasing footprints as Cara took more and more steps away from her. From _them_.

But this wasn’t a hallucination. They _had_ been there. Cara had saved her life there. That cursed wasteland was locked out of reach, in the Old World. No. Though no less inescapable, this was reality. This was Aydindril, this was her domain, her home. This was _supposed_ to be home. And the soreness in her chest wasn’t the product of some ancient enchantment, and Cara had been no phantom as she threw Kahlan’s impossible words back in her face. As she demanded an impossible choice and then turned her back.

The pain splintering through her was real.

And right now, her pain had a witness. Mikhail had spoken and she had altogether missed it. With considerable effort, she pulled her gaze from the word _hearts_ on the parchment to regard him, using the heel of her palm to discreetly wipe the stiff tear-salt from her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, drawing up the dregs of her composure, heavy in speech and in shoulders, “could you say that again? My thoughts were elsewhere.”

“Of course, Mother Confessor.” Mikhail nodded, still standing at attention with his fist over his chest. Kahlan wordlessly invited him to ease the position, and he repeated himself. “Confessor Dennee is waiting in the corridor. She claims an invitation to mid-morning tea.”

It took Kahlan a number of those crooked seconds to absorb what he had said, and then a few more to realize what he meant. When she did, she let out a low groan, fingertips pressed to throbbing temples.

“I can’t believe I completely forgot.”

Of course Dennee would take advantage of her standing invitation on this specific morning, after all the turmoil broken only by an hour or two of fitful dozing. Kahlan was tired. She was tired in her bones and drained hollow, rendered raw from pushing away her only measure of reprieve. Her only space to safely come unraveled. Tea was absolutely not among her primary concerns.

Mikhail must have read the veiled exasperation coursing beneath her attempt at a neutral response. “I can ask her to leave. Tell her you’re tending to a developing urgent matter of state. She won’t question me.”

“No.” Kahlan shook her head. Dennee might not openly question a member of Kahlan’s guard, but she would certainly continue to question Kahlan herself. More silent scrutiny, more sidelong gazes rife with suspicion. There had already been too many falsehoods, and Kahlan couldn’t lie to her sister any longer. The lies of omission had been deplorable enough. Now that there was nothing left to omit, Kahlan decided with a queasy nag in her throat, it was time to reset and recast her direction. She had to take the tattered reins of her self-control and try to remember how it felt to hold them as tightly as she once had. There was only the hope that the memory and practice were not too far gone. Raking a hand through her hair, Kahlan sighed again. “No, please send her in. Oh, and Mikhail?”

The guard paused his quarter-turn toward the door, beyond which Dennee was undoubtedly growing unsettled. Even this brief back-and-forth had been longer than it should have been. “Yes, Mother Confessor?”

“When you see a scullion,” she told him, wringing the weariness from her voice, “please tell them to deliver tea and something sweet? Something readily-available. I don’t want to look as unprepared as I am. Honey cakes or curd tarts or…” The inconsequential tedium of what she was saying caused her to trail off. “It truly doesn’t matter. I can’t even think about it. They’ll know what’s best.”

Mikhail nodded his compliance; the small gesture seamlessly turned into a more reverent bow befitting Kahlan’s authority. As he straightened, his dark-eyed gaze met hers with something unfamiliar but mild. A subtle glimmer of understanding, or careful knowing. It was a brief flicker, just a passing blink of a moment - but Kahlan caught it before it was gone, clutching onto that brief bit of subdued kindness for all she was worth. And, for the first time, Kahlan truly wondered who Mikhail was when he wasn’t standing rigid and vigilant outside of her door.

If Kahlan was going to temper herself, she had to do so with haste. Only a few heartbeats separated her from Dennee’s presence and contemplation. Her little sister knew her too well to ignore the swollen eyes or the sleepless blossoms of shadow underneath them, the knitted brow, the bitten lip. How, every few moments, her breathing would be overcome by an abrupt and rib-creaking sigh. Kahlan’s half-torn seams, visible only to those who knew the same burden, would be on full and flawed display.

 _You’re not yourself_ , Dennee would voice as her worried claim yet again, and she would still be correct.

Kahlan wasn’t herself. She wasn’t the Confessor she had been honed to become since she was just a young adolescent, pulled from the Valley of Thandor to Aydindril, swept directly into meticulous and firm wardship of Mother Confessor Serena. The path that had been laid for her since the moment she had been weaned and her power began to manifest, restraint and duty taught by her mother, before all the darkness. These women’s words, their promises and demands and convictions straining back to time immemorial - Kahlan had lost sight of them. But they were still there. She could salvage their tattered traces and draw them in, tighten her lines and recast her tendencies. She could veer back onto the same bearing she had followed to the Westland boundary, before Richard Cypher’s unassuming outstretched hand had interrupted it. Before settling doubt, before embraces and grieving rage in solitude, before Aldermont and Aydindril. Before selfishness became a glimmering option. Before Cara became everything. Before the insolent influence of _what do_ you _want_?

Mother Confessor Serena’s incensed voice swelled up from her memory, almost a reflexive reaction to the forbidden thought. _You were taught all your life to know the difference between right and wrong_. Kahlan had been blind to it then, but regarding Kahlan’s credence, her mentor had spoken without error that day. Her judgement had been impaired by feelings that could never be actualized, justified, or consummated, set against everything she had believed and everything for which she had once striven.

But no longer. Kahlan’s mantle was heavy but it was waiting for the permanence of her shoulders. The Midlands needed a capable and rightful Mother Confessor in the times to come. Kahlan needed to comply and do what was right for her people, to silence the phantoms telling her she was less-than.

Just a bit more pretending to get through this tea affair: her current distress was because of Shota. Nothing more. That was not a falsehood. From there, it would just be an endeavor of time and distance. Distance from this morning - from the annihilatory words exchanged and Cara’s turned back. Count the seconds of keeping her arm’s length until they faded for torture. Cage herself into the suitable shapes that would ( _might_ , a chill along her spine) one day be limned in her monolithic likeness on the wall of the Council Chamber, joining every other Mother Confessor who bore these burdens before her.

Some portion of the world would right itself in her adherence to duty. Kahlan would survive it.

And surviving started now. Those few heartbeats had passed in concurrence with that flurry of thoughts. Dennee was standing in front of her. A soft but wary smile touched her features. And while Kahlan saw _Dennee_ in the expression, just as she had once seen Dennee’s first smile of infanthood, the lingering strangeness in the shape of her eyes and mouth only served to deepen the silent divide between them. One of Dennee’s hands rested idly on the black silk of her dress where it flowed over the swell of her belly, which seemed to become more pronounced every time Kahlan saw her. The promise of a tiny Confessor, healthy and growing. It filled Kahlan with the knotty feeling of both joy for her sister and dread for herself.

Aware of her surrender to fate, Kahlan pondered how long it would be until she, too, was compelled into childing. Not long, she guessed, and the thought toppled into another surge of grimness. Resignation to the _musts_ did not abate all of the fears surrounding them.

Just before the silent taking of appraisal had gone on for too long, Dennee spoke, her voice carrying the lilt of a laugh to cover its faint unease. “Meticulous, isn’t he?”

Kahlan had no patience left for the grainy tedium of feeling out a timid greeting. Instead of joining the tentative dance, she touched Dennee’s shoulder and quickly but gently drew her in, as she had done countless times since they were both tiny.

“Little sister,” she breathed, praying that the tremble had stayed out of her throat, closing her eyes and trying to gather some stillness.

Just like her visage, the arms finding their easy way around her weren’t Dennee’s. Not exactly. But the embrace was. Its familiar warmth was of brief and unexpected comfort; Kahlan felt her pulse slow, her stomach unclench, her bunched muscles go gloriously slack for just a moment. Until she remembered the feeling of another embrace, strong arms encircling her, pulling her from grief, pulling her into bed, pulling her into rare ease with herself. Warmth all over and through her body. Broad, stable, secure. All of these things she had forsaken. Kahlan stiffened again.

Fortunately, Dennee did not notice her bristling and instead spoke through the tight hug. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Likewise,” Kahlan half-lied, scorning herself for it, warding off the pang of melancholy.

Kahlan made sure Dennee was the one to break the hold. As she did, she raised her gaze to meet Kahlan’s. Only a beat of perception passed before her clement smile wilted into a tight, fretful frown.

“Kahlan. You look awful.” Dennee’s brow notched. Kahlan fought the urge to shrink away as gentle but reluctant fingertips brushed against the livid fatigue-bruise tinging the hollow of her right eye. “Like you haven’t had a moment of sleep.”

The unvoiced question, the worn-out _are you alright_ , slipped between them. Dennee knew she was struggling; Kahlan had divulged that herself. And now the trepidation demanded yet another explanation. Kahlan steeled herself, prayed to the Creator, and broke into what needed to be her final dalliance with falsehood.

“I think she was _right_.” Kahlan’s stomach twisted with the ambiguous _she_ as Cara’s cutting words throbbed in her mind. “Shota,” she clarified with incisive haste, mostly for herself. “You know her broad warnings, and you know that I believe them. And those signs of testament to her visions’ validity? At first they were all so vague, but now, even though it might sound like I’m delirious, they’re becoming much more distinct. And real. I was…” A pause, a hurried hesitation. “I was up all night ruminating about it.”

Dennee’s eyes, gray-green where they should have been bright blue, narrowed. There was no time to react to the thin-lipped doubt that came for Kahlan, direct to center.

“No. That’s not it. You’re not being honest with me.”

Being so blatantly challenged caused a thorny mingling of anger and defensive guilt to well up in Kahlan’s core and permeate the rest of her sensation. She latched into it and used it to respond, hoping the former was more resounding than the latter. “So it’s come to this, then? Using your power to read me?” she scoffed, letting the indignation pour forth, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t need my power here,” Dennee replied with ire of her own. She shook her head, never breaking their shared gaze. But the gesture also changed her tone, softening it into a quiet but insistent bid for truth. “I’ve spent every conscious moment of my life as your sister. Your beloved confidante, and you mine. I’ve been reflecting on our conversation yesterday, and I know there’s more to all of this than you’re telling.” A deep, resolute breath, sounding like a summoner of words already prepared. “I once kept a secret from you - my first pregnancy. It made me _sick_ then, Kahlan, and even to this day l regret withholding it from you. The thought of something else unspoken between us…” Her thought trailed off into a sigh. “So, please. Just tell me. Maybe I can help you hold at least some of it.”

Kahlan’s blood was thrumming. Nothing more unspoken between them. Except this. Because if Kahlan revealed what her heart was begging for, it would lead to her downfall. Dennee couldn’t understand - there was too much venom in the blood spilled in the past. By speaking freely, Kahlan would marry herself to that atrocity and would lose her sister, too. And for what? For a connection that had already been severed, still thrashing in its fresh demise.

And it wasn’t only that. For the Mother Confessor, there were considerations well beyond her sister’s scorn. _Nothing here is as discreet as you might think it is_. Councilor Nielan’s sneered warning brought on a surge of dread Kahlan felt in her knucklebones. An out-loud admission of wayward love would ignite an uncontrollable blaze of whispers and surprised judgement. Once spoken, it could never be thrust back into oblivion. Kahlan Amnell, a leader completely out of control and out of her bounds. Twice distracted, twice smitten, twice derelict. Foolish enough to fall once for the Seeker. Damned in double for allowing such burning entanglement with another after - with a woman. Such a complication, such a stark hindrance to her imperative duty to continue her bloodline. The thought of being known in such a way was like drowning in her own heavy depths.

But she had to say something. Dennee’s concerned but so deeply-demanding gaze had her back against the wall and she needed to carefully and convincingly speak her way out.

“You’re right.” Her voice threatened to crack and betray her painstaking stern poise. “You’re my sister. And yet it’s clear that you don’t trust me. I’m so _weary_ of the constant interrogation, Dennee. Because the answer has been and still is _everything_. It’s the warnings and prophecy, it’s the Council, it’s all of these expectations, it’s-”

“It’s Cara.” Dennee’s interruption was abrupt, matter-of-fact, strangely apathetic, cutting straight through Kahlan’s wild swinging with a look sharper than a whetted dagger. “Isn’t it?”

Hearing the name is what utterly disarmed her. Falling so bluntly from Dennee’s lips like it was the most obvious thing any person had ever said, as though Dennee herself had called Cara by her name a thousand times before. It was a violent collision and blurring of the border Kahlan had delineated between those opposite parts of herself - Confessor and woman, adherence to duty and surrender to full-hearted love. The accompanying daggers in Dennee’s gaze did their adept work of piercing, of permeating, and Kahlan was seen, she was _known_ , in a terrifying and irrevocable way. It felt like the opposite side of her calling - standing trial for her crimes under infallible judgment. Every hidden tryst, every silent smile, every single fragile and enraptured heart-skip cast into merciless, vivid display. Kahlan’s weak-moment delusions - the yearning for a world of just _them,_ so perfectly alone - tore away from her grip, too, setting asunder into the harrowing open. Every fragment of love left abandoned mocked her in her liar’s shame.

It was the sudden impact of freezing water, outside and within, slapping her unsuspecting skin and taking over her veins, dripping in numb rivulets from her fingertips and chilling her at the core. The meticulous but depleting facade began to collapse. Kahlan felt herself plummeting inward.

She meant to open her mouth to declare some weak denial. Instead, her face just crumpled. She concealed it quickly with her palm and fingers, searching every corner of herself for even a wisp of remaining composure or dignity. There was none. Shoulders hunching, an innate but futile attempt to hide herself, she couldn’t help but let out a tiny sound that was moan, whisper, sigh, and sob all at once.

And though it sounded like it was coming from a league away, Kahlan forced herself to hear every distinct, conflicting strand of Dennee’s short reaction. Disbelief. Betrayal. Resignation. Pity. Heartbreak.

“Oh, _Kahlan_.”

It rang with the desire to take hold of Kahlan and to shove her away in the same instant, culminating in total inaction. Dennee, face shadowed, kept her distance. Kahlan’s lungs gave a shuddering, stifled heave.

“Dennee, I…” Kahlan’s pinched voice failed. What could she even say? She could tell the whole story in explicit terms, letting the full truth free for the first time. She could admit to the sins of letting Cara touch her, of letting Cara love her, and of doing both in overwhelming return. Shed light on the guilt of her wanting body and selfish heart. Recite a list of faults beginning and ending with how her attachments had repeatedly led her to wrecking the highest plans. But none of that needed to be spoken. It was written all over her, like Cara’s mouth on her skin, stolen away and satisfied.

“I didn’t want to see it,” Dennee murmured, looking askance, fumbling hands, eyes shrouded, obviously fighting a more vehement reaction. “I didn’t want to let myself even think of it. But I watch you with her. I hear the way you speak of her and to her, and I…” She shook her head with a nervous, humorless laugh that made Kahlan wince. “Spirits, sister. _How_? What’s happened to you? And what of _Richard_? What is this to his memory?”

It was uncalled for. It was uncalled for and invasive and it stung, deeply, clawing into the insecurities buried deep in Kahlan’s center. With a flare of heat at her neck, the pain moved from inside to outside. Kahlan lashed out with a bitter tone and wild eyes.

“Richard has nothing to do with this,” she insisted. “Richard is _gone_ , Dennee. Richard is gone and I’m still here, trying to make sense of what he left behind.” And for the first time, washed in cruel clarity, Kahlan realized how _furious_ she was with him. For abandoning them here on the brink of the unknown, with nothing to go on but vague words of a sly witch and a millenia-dead prophet. No Sword of Truth. No compass. No easy confidence or stalwart determination or influence as a savior. Nothing but her and Cara - now nothing but her, burning like a candle, depleted day after day. The bubbling resentment tore at her heart, uncompromising in its presence. But through it all, he was still Richard. And Kahlan hated how every one of her thoughts and feelings had to be so very complicated. Nothing was easy, and not would it be. “With everything lost as it was, Cara is what I found. She was the sense I’ve been able to make. Don’t ever presume what he would think of me or how I’ve coped with this mess. You never knew him like I did. Like _we_ did.”

(There was no longer a _we_ to speak of, she remembered, only after she had said it.)

At first, Dennee balked at the way Kahlan had come at her with a temper. But she recovered and bit back. “Fine. But even with Richard aside, what about _me_?” She opened her arms, testifying her presence there in Kahlan’s solar. “Richard is gone, and you’re still here. Well, so am I. Did you think of me? I can’t fathom how you could hold even a shred of affection for her after what she’s done. Creator, Kahlan, how _could_ you?”

“Cara took your life with the same amount of choice you had in taking the body you now inhabit,” Kahlan pointed out after a steadying breath. “How can I make you understand? Her autonomy was erased by torture and false pride. But now her choices are hers alone. They reflect her true intentions. And she’s chosen good. She’s saved countless more lives than she’s taken. She doesn’t need to suffer through any more atonement.” The last word broke from her mind and mouth like spitting out something rotten. “Through all of this, I have to believe that the world is carrying on in this way for a reason. You’re here for a reason. So am I, and so is Cara. And if it wasn’t for her, I doubt I would be at all.”

The ghost of a moment past rippled into her awareness and stopped her speaking. Just a small memory, insignificant in the world’s grander scheme, noticed once, half-considered, and then whisked away to join the innumerable seemingly-unremarkable moments just like it. But this one returned from its idle exile with sudden vengeance. Summer blaze, heavy air, Mount Kymermosst jutting higher and higher into the crystal-sky horizon with every heavy hoofbeat of their gallop to Aydindril’s walls. Exhausted, dirty, sore, but content. Relieved. The last few instants of their world alone. Through the steady motion, Kahlan had glanced at Cara to watch her ride, all easy rhythm and almost-lazy hold on the reins in spite of their speed. Her blonde hair, still free from its braid, then, was tossed behind her in the wind. Noticing Kahlan’s gaze, Cara returned it with a smirk that reluctantly turned into a smile much warmer, much realer, one that touched her eyes with light like from the sun high and heavy above.

Cara was stunning. That smile had been captivating, a private show of joy. And now, falling in, the possibility that Kahlan might never see it again, in that form, bestowed upon her and only her with such genuineness.

Bend became break. Kahlan felt the fracture. She let one gasping sob escape before clapping her hand over her mouth, trying to send it back into nothingness.

But.

Muffled, desperate, raw and weighted with stricken truth: “I don’t want to be without her.”

Here at the end of all of her frayed lines, there was no smothering the tears. With a pitiful noise, Kahlan came to pieces.

And Dennee, now witness to the madness, reached out. Reached through her strident outrage, reached through the shattered glass separating them, reached to the edge. Reached for her sister. Kahlan felt Dennee’s arms settle around her and she sunk in, bone-tired with no more capacity for shame, slumping against her and letting her sobs wrack both of their bodies.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she whimpered into the angle of Dennee’s jaw. “What’s between us is over. I put an end to it, for the sake of everything. So I can be better. Worthy.” No attachment, no possession. No selfish erratic behavior. No fear of letting go for duty. Just the pure presence of dominion and nobility. “I turned her away. And now I don’t know who I am here.”

Dennee had no response except to hush her with soft, inarticulate sounds, smoothing Kahlan’s hair with short, tender strokes. There was a discernible shade of relief in the first noise that couldn’t even manage to make Kahlan feel harm. There was too much else crowding her perception.

“I’m not cut out for any of this.” Her tears were soaking Dennee’s skin. “It’s so hard, little sister.”

“Hush, and calm down. I know, Kahlan. I know.”

Dennee didn’t know, Kahlan thought. Not at all. But Kahlan could pretend to believe it, if pretending would satisfy Dennee. Another brick for Kahlan’s burden and penance.

“Do you think it was this hard for Magda Searus, or Serena, or…” she croaked, holding on more tightly, each word a new crack in the veneer. “Or for mama?”

Dennee was silent as the question’s weight hung all over both of them. Their mother had left them with too soon, with all this power and no way to handle it. With a lifetime of love, but the necessity to hold their duty above it. They were so small then. In Dennee’s arms, Kahlan felt small again.

And feeling small made her think of the meadowlark hatchling from her childhood, the one with the broken wing. How she dedicated herself to the tiny unfortunate creature, pouring all of her time and love into nursing it back to health, until it grew even stronger than the rest of its kin and left her. She had wanted to hold on to the bird, to keep it with her, regretting helping it become so capable. It wasn’t fair. But she held on to Dennee instead as it flew ever farther away from her, weeping just as openly as she wept now.

_The things you love will always come back to you._

If only Kahlan didn’t have to make sure to keep them far away.

They stayed that way for a long time, until Kahlan had been spent.

The tea eventually arrived and was allowed to grow cold.

* * *

This was only following Kahlan’s command, Cara reasoned through a heavy headrush of brooding hostility and admittedly-too-much red wine.

She was drunk, but cognizant, and the moonlight was strange. Muted outside, but somehow brightening as it crept into the window and splayed out over bare flesh. Like it wanted to highlight these actions in some distraught appeal for her to realize what she was doing. But Cara needed no aid in knowing; she was already well-aware.

In the shadowed darkness, she felt Dahlia’s lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk against her own. Cara wanted to shout it away, but, not chancing words, chose to bite instead. Dahlia gasped at the sudden sensation of teeth, fingernails digging into skin where hand was trapped between Cara’s back and the wall. Only half-breaking the kiss, she murmured, throaty and drenched with heady greed, “I knew you’d be back.”

It was meant to provoke. To bore in and pour salt and to prove that Dahlia had known Cara better than Cara knew herself. To remind Cara that she had been an absolute fool. But, again, Cara needed no reminder and gave no response to Dahlia’s bait. Words would only damn her to the fate of a thick throat, cracking voice. So she steeped in her muted rage and scorn, letting the words simmer in the friction of their unclothed bodies, and slipped her thigh more fully between Dahlia’s, wrestling back whatever threadbare measure of control over this situation she could. She gripped the curve of Dahlia’s ass to bring her in closer, earning a breathy moan with the shared rolling grind of their hips. Pressing back, challenging Cara’s momentum, Dahlia put aside the smug lines and reclaimed Cara’s parted lips, pinning her to the wall with hands on her waist. Trapping her there. Cara, steamed and reeling, opening her mouth against Dahlia’s and tried not to taste Kahlan.

Dahlia’s words dwindled in the dimness, melting into the other sounds humming at the edge of her awareness. The racket of Ambrosio’s below, bustling in the evening hour: raucous laughter, a drinking song, an ale mug hitting the floor or the wall as emphasis. The sighs and hitched whimpers that escaped (only from Dahlia) as their bodies twisted together against the wall. The creaking of the wood as their weight shifted against it with growing intensity and enthusiasm.

And lingering over it all, scorning Cara and threatening her very sanity: the steady beat of Kahlan’s pulse.

The sound of the Mother Confessor’s pure heart was relentless. Sometimes racing, sometimes slow, all fits and starts in her head. Cara wanted to cut it from her flesh and bone.

In every place, all of the time, Cara could hear it. Could feel it, inescapably. The incessant steady rhythm of it had followed her here, where she was cleaved from what she had been becoming. Hidden in Dahlia’s quarters, with Dahlia’s hands on her breasts and Dahlia’s mouth on her neck. But unlike the last time she was in this tiny room, the sound was not a revelation, nor a tether to peace and self. It simply loomed over her with all of its weight, this infuriating entity she couldn’t dispel even after being tossed out.

The constancy of it assaulted her perception, giving rise to ideas the goblets of dark tannic wine couldn’t erase. How she was weak (her hips and stomach twitched as Dahlia gave her nipple a teasing pinch). How she had been destined for loss after being folded in every direction. How all of her difficult choices had been in vain, and this wasteful emptiness was what remained.

How, before Kahlan had left her aside, Cara had been doing exactly what she had told her to do: she _had_ been making a life here. One she now had to disentangle from Kahlan’s, cast off yet again from where she had once felt like she belonged.

The sound of the Mother Confessor’s pure heart was relentless and Cara had to try to drown it out. Douse it in drink until her head swam and lurched. Eradicate these thousand unnamed shapes and bury them in the familiarity of fucking, of sweat and shudder and pleasure, in the familiarity of Dahlia, a once-choice interrupted.

“And I’m glad you are,” Dahlia purred in Cara’s ear, continuing the one-sided conversation before doing something particularly fiendish with her tongue, sending Cara shivering (more weakness). The smirk returned with intensity, and Cara clenched her own jaw so hard it made her skull ring. “She couldn’t make you quiver like that.”

Cara, desperate to believe her but unable to attain the faith, continued to palm the backs of Dahlia’s thighs, breaking several promises and inviting havoc. It was what she had been built for.

Dahlia’s porcelain skin was so warm, so eager and responsive to Cara’s spiteful yet ravenous touch. Contradictions everywhere. The world was different. The world was in pieces. And their bodies were different from one another’s, too. Dahlia had come into adulthood lithe and lean, while Cara had grown broad and well-muscled - and although Cara could tell that Dahlia’s had softened between then in D’Hara and now in Aydindril, their bodies remembered each other well when reintroduced in this lustful way. Never mind the guilt, never mind the hollowness of it all.

A body’s response was a body’s response. Cara was buzzing, aching, so slick between her thighs. Numbness, too, was numbness.

Choice was choice.

Dahlia folded into Cara, licking up the thews of her neck and then biting down in a way that made Cara nearly snarl, in a way that was sure to leave a bruise. Humming deep in her throat, upper lip twitching, Cara angled her chin to allow Dahlia both permission and more expanse to mark. One more bruise meant nothing when she already had so many, all over and through her. Each one of them cried out a dazed protest at their exposure in the cold moonlight.

Her scars, too, seemed more pronounced in the pale watery gleam. So did Dahlia’s. Both were etched with the hard-earned marks of breaking and battle. With their naked bodies held tight together, their scars created an either an elegant pattern or a long and tragic story, in the way they aligned. Cara knew her scars. That one on the shoulder, Cara thought as her fingertips passed over it while Dahlia’s lips roamed under the edge of her jaw, she remembered well. She had been there for its bestowal, and wore its twin. She nearly remembered them all. So many just like it, and not merely the ones manifest to the eye.

Kahlan had scars, too, Cara knew. Not many, but enough. Scars on her heart, of her mother and of Richard and of this legacy she had to uphold which had rendered them as nothing. The scar on her thigh, put there by Cara’s own doing (and consequent undoing). And the scar on her upper lip - the one that was only visible in _just_ the right light, if one was looking directly where it lay, which Cara often had. But for all the furtive gawking, Cara realized, with a pang of inane regret, that she had no idea of its origin. And now she never would. She should have asked. She should have been _better_. She should have done anything but gaze at it in silence and imagine brushing it with her thumb before devouring Kahlan’s waiting mouth with more passion than either of them could contain.

Not asking, and now never knowing, was just another foolish choice she would have to suffer with.

But that thought didn’t last long, nor did the despicably guilty thought of taking Kahlan. Because Dahlia suddenly drew back and grasped Cara’s throat, _tight_ , palm pressed against her windpipe, fingers prodding at her jugular. Cara froze, and so did her heart, but Kahlan’s didn’t. Watching through bewildered unsteady vision, her hands stilled on Dahlia’s waist, instinctively holding her away, preparing to fight. And Dahlia stared right back, eyes pointed and glimmering, mouth like stone for one, two, three long seconds until it coiled into a _vicious_ sneer.

“Oh?” Dahlia slowly raised her eyebrows in feigned astonishment. “I thought you enjoyed that sort of thing.”

A flare of profound rancor left Cara deaf to the peals of Dahlia’s snide laughter. Its spiteful swelter started in her center and rose with each slow-passing second, seizing her lungs on its way, filling her with hate. She _hated_ , and it was boiling her. She hated so many things and most of them had nothing to do with Dahlia. This city and its growing resemblance to a prison. Its oblivious inhabitants, like the ones carrying on downstairs, leaping back into ordinary life despite the world’s clear precariousness. Its downright ignorant ruling assembly, for looking for victories in all the wrong places and shunning any whisper of continued peril. The heat crept across her chest, up her neck, raising flush across her skin. Richard and Zedd, too. Cara hated them for leaving. She hated the idea of _home_ and the way all the wine made her feel so slow. And herself. She hated herself for this, and for plenty aside from this, more than she hated most of the others.

For an instant, she tried to hate Kahlan. But the misguided attempt only made Cara hate herself more. With an abrupt flurry of motion, she tried to shrug Dahlia’s hand away. Dahlia resisted, holding on all the more tightly.

Face was burning up, then, Cara felt her teeth grit and her upper lip flare beyond the lines of her control. But the expression must have lacked the intimidation it once carried. Because instead of backing away, Dahlia was moving in close again. With a half-lidded smile of victory, her hand slipped from Cara’s throat to her jaw, tilting her head with thumb and forefinger on her chin to force a met gaze. Cara stared back, silent, scowling, eyes like live embers ready to rend in the heat.

“Don’t be so _sensitive_ , Cara,” Dahlia taunted, fingertips of her other hand trailing down Cara’s body from sternum to navel, stalling just below, raising gooseflesh despite the absolute anger. “It doesn’t become you. Too weak, too simpering. Tell me. How far under your skin have you allowed her to reach? And how can I get the poison out?”

A lifetime of protecting each other from their weaknesses meant that Dahlia knew Cara’s too well. More vulnerability to hate. Like being seen straight through and not seen at all, all at once. Cara sighed as Dahlia’s fingers flickered so lightly near the apex of her thighs.

At one time, Dahlia’s brazen demeanor would have been met with a spirited backhand, trading clever words for violence and a taking back of the upper hand. Now, a world away, it was different. The intent was there, but the inclination felt impotent. For all of the rage, Cara could hardly bring herself to move.

But there were other ways of making Dahlia submit.

Cara caught both of Dahlia’s wrists, holding her hands at bay, and leaned close to growl in her ear.

“ _Kneel_.”

The word carried too much weight. Hovering over the First Chair. Pulled in by a neck guard strap, ignited from heart to bones and deeper. The memory hadn’t faded yet. A fetter of impossibility; magnitude far out of reach. Cara needed to stop holding it but was at a loss as to _how_. How to stop making everything fill Cara with the infernal feeling of missing her.

Ignorant of the connotation, Dahlia moaned her thrilled deference to the demand and fell to her knees before Cara, palms skimming up her thighs. She grabbed onto Cara’s hips and, with gasping desperation, took her with her mouth, all demanding possession. An explicit affirmation. _This_ , only this. Only ever this. A try at a heaving pull back into line, into her - raring skill, confident ministrations. Like a siege engine. And despite everything, Cara’s legs spread in abject want of the sensation, a half-willing flag of truce. Every one of her battlements was ablaze.

The muscles of Cara’s midsection jumped as Dahlia’s tongue, broad and slow, stroked against her throbbing clit. Loath to give Dahlia the satisfaction, she managed to curb any further reaction save for a near-noiseless exhalation, lungs depleting through an open mouth. Another deliberate, penetrating lick and Cara let her weight settle more completely against the wall behind her to avoid the unacceptable risk of her knees folding. Her hands groped there, blindly, for a neutral place to rest and grip; when her tingling fingers failed to find adequate purchase against the wall’s splintery surface, she sighed sharply and balled one in a trembling fist by her side, the other cradling the back of Dahlia’s head. And though the gesture was reluctant, it still brought Dahlia against her more deeply. Taking the contact as approval, and being half-correct, Dahlia increased her efforts. Cara strained against a groan, managing to hold it to an under-the-breath curse.

Lineated in the diminished light, Dahlia’s loose-flowing hair looked several shades darker than it truly was. Cara blinked away, with haste, from watching her, wary of taking in too much of what had been falsely reflected there - what would destroy her. So she did her best to banish the image, walling it off in her mind, closing her eyes and tipping her head back. Focusing on the spontaneous way her hips began to undulate, prying every tiny bit of pleasure possible from Dahlia’s appetent, insistent mouth. Latching on to the swirling, already-urgent pressure building in her core, radiating from under Dahlia’s well-practiced tongue. Heeding the sensation of slick carnal friction meeting with the bitter agitation still convulsing in her chest. When they glanced off of one another, they mingled, entwining and thinning and causing a fuss before careening up and out, causing Cara’s hips to jerk, breath to hitch and then come more quickly until she was entirely panting.

It had been so long. So long since Cara had been touched by someone else in this intentional and assured and consuming way. And it was so _good_. Objectively. Overwhelmingly. Those steady waves of long-absent pleasure coursed through her, ravaging every last corner of her perception, carrying her to the narrow brink of climax much more rapidly than Dahlia would have remembered. But she still knew the signs - the deep breath, the tensing thighs, the arch of her back - because she took firm hold of Cara’s ass and worked all the more vigorously.

Cara fought it as hard as she could - the urge to release and dismantle. To cross this shameful line, to commit this crime for which she no longer had any reason to answer. But her unruly body took advantage of her mind’s preoccupation, the latter too distracted with _not_ thinking of Kahlan and _not_ feeling Kahlan’s heart in synchrony with the racing beat of her her own, to exert even a flimsy semblance of control. With just a half-instant to recognize and be sickened by her powerlessness, Cara succumbed. Her orgasm was merciless in its intensity, sending white-hot infernos bursting into nondescript patterns, blinding her with her eyes closed, tearing a strangled groan from her throat. It sounded utterly pathetic, but Cara had no capacity to care, stolen away by the ebb and flow. For one moment, just blissful, euphoric emptiness.

Dahlia supported Cara’s wobbling legs, greedily draining her of the aftershocks, of everything, completely.

And then, the moment was over. Reality came sprawling back in before Cara had even caught her breath. She was exactly where she had been before, if not even further behind. With a stream of furious dismay and the want to just hide herself entirely, she tried to withdraw from Dahlia’s touch. The wall kept her trapped in place with her shame.

Still on her knees, Dahlia gazed up at Cara through her lashes, wearing an enigmatic smile. Cara could see herself glistening on Dahlia’s mouth and chin before she wiped it away with the back of a graceful hand. The grin darkened, and Cara, breathing hard and only somewhat coherent, waited for some barbed comment on her stamina.

“See?” she said, smirk audible in her tone, not breaking eye contact as she nipped once more at the inside of Cara’s left thigh. “I still know what gets you heated, what makes your toes curl. I still know _you_. You’re exactly the same, Cara, through and through.”

And Cara considered it in that harrowing clarity of her body calming from its peak: maybe Dahlia was right. Maybe she had been frozen in place, just like right now, while the world rushed around her. Maybe those splintering feelings of change and of trying to gradually make herself fit within this place, within Kahlan’s heart, weren’t pains of growth, but pains of atrophy. None of it had mattered, regardless of what she had hoped change would allow. None of the old burdens lifted - they were simply buried under a new crop of misattributed, mismanaged expectations and the pain of coming too close and coming up empty.

Cara had no words of response, but their presence wouldn’t have carried weight, because her jaw was locked, throat was burning. Dahlia was more than happy to fill the silence, with a tone at once relieved and unguarded, sullen and jarring, like every contradiction Cara felt personified before her.

“She hardly knows you.” Her grin faded, and she regarded Cara with earnest gravity. “She can’t feel for you the way I do, and always have. You know you can never be with her the way we are.”

Rising to her full height and pinning Cara by the waist once again, Dahlia kissed her with urgency, a desperate reminder to keep her from fading away. And though Cara only met its passion out of reflex, she could taste herself in Dahlia’s open mouth. It made her want to dissolve into the dark. She imagined halting Dahlia with a swift, brutal headbutt, clashing with nauseous fury, bruising their foreheads and ending this for good.

But she also wanted it to go on forever, because this was something to feel. Something to cloak her in indifference as she thought of the word Kahlan had said accidentally, and Dahlia hadn’t said at all. Worthiness wrapped in smoke, left out to deteriorate. _Love_. Kahlan’s heartbeat came back with even more insistence, storming something in the base of her skull. It was so loud, grating on whatever lay inside of her, forcing her to think of somewhere she could no longer be.

And if neither the drink nor Dahlia’s mouth had helped, she needed to try more.

“On the floor,” she rasped when Dahlia paused for air. The bed just reminded her of the one in Kahlan’s chambers. Their eyes were locked. Dahlia’s were gorgeous but the wrong sort of blue. “Face the mirror.”

With a half-mask of coyness for her delight, Dahlia clasped her own lower lip between her teeth and obeyed. She sank to her hands and knees with slow elegance in front of the dressing mirror against the opposite wall. She held Cara’s gaze in the reflection. Smoldering right into Cara’s sinews and spaces. An invitation to further ruin.

Cara’s knees hit the floor behind Dahlia with a bolt of ache that seemed to pass as quickly as it was noticed. There was no space to notice it left in Cara’s mind, steady in its hopeless intent to forget, even for a few moments. Moments of pleasure, of pure fucking, of losing herself in something other than Kahlan’s eyes, Kahlan’s hands, Kahlan’s bed. Own hand shaking with need, Cara dragged her fingers through Dahlia’s arousal once, twice, hearing her moan, feeling her arch with each pass. Tasting Cara had made her so remarkably wet.

For an instant, it felt almost wonderful to be so wanted.

Then, without preamble, Cara slipped inside of her - deep, rough, all at once. Dahlia cried out with ravishment probably exaggerated. Cara didn’t care. She just met Dahlia’s needy writhing with an unhesitating thrust, then another, then more, using her own hips to augment the motion. Her free hand splayed its way up Dahlia’s spine and gathered her hair in a hard-clenched fist. Wrapping it once around her wrist, Cara pulled, earning a sharp gasp of an impatient word.

“ _More._ ”

Cara gave herself over to fulfilling it with abandon. Another tug and Dahlia let her neck bend back, bidding Cara deeper.

The reflection of Dahlia’s face was mired in ecstasy - eyes shut tight, lips parted, cheeks flushed, responding to every compelling movement Cara made. And Cara watched her, screaming with the need to keep it that way, trying with all her worn-out might to keep a rhythm aside from the one still somehow resounding in her head.

Anything to stay lost in this space. Anything for a reprieve, to feel consummate, to hold even false control of all these trajectories.

Anything to keep Dahlia’s eyes closed and oblivious to the reticent, disgraceful, numb tears brimming in her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your readership is cherished! Thanks to you all for taking a weird time and making it better. I've been having a blast. Your thoughts are always welcome and I love connecting with you all. More to come soon! Hit me up on Twitter or tumblr if you want to see me self-deprecate and shitpost a lot.


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